TH€ 

UNIY6RS1TY  Of  CALlfORNIA 
LIBRARY 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS 


THE 

GOLDEN  TREASURY 


OF 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS 

EDITED    BY 

FREDERIC    LAWRENCE    KNOWLES 

POPULAR   EDITION 


BOSTON 
L.  C.  PAGE   AND   COMPANY 

(INCORPORATED) 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright, 
BY  L.  C.  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

(INCORPORATED) 


Copyright,  1901 
BY  L.  C.  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

(INCORPORATED) 


•  '  \     TentV.  Impresivni,  September,  1906 


(EnUmtal  $!rrss 

Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  C.  H.  Simonds  &  Co. 
Boston,  U.  S.  A. 


IE0 


PREFACE. 


THE  numerous  collections  of  American  verse  share, 
I  think,  one  fault  in  common :  they  include  too  much. 
Whether  this  has  been  a  bid  for  popularity,  a  conces- 
sion to  Philistia,  I  cannot  say;  but  the  fact  remains 
that  all  anthologies  of  American  poetry  are,  so  far 
as  I  know,  more  or  less  uncritical.  The  aim  of  the 
present  book  is  different.  In  no  case  has  a  poem 
been  included  because  it  is  widely  known.  The 
purpose  of  this  compilation  is  solely  that  of  pre- 
serving, in  attractive  and  permanent  form,  about  one 
hundred  and  sixty  of  the  best  lyrics  of  America. 

I  am  quite  aware  of  the  danger  attending  such 
exacting  honor-rolls.  At  best,  an  editor's  judgment 
is  only  personal,  and  the  realization  of  this  fact  gives 
me  no  small  diffidence  in  attempting  to  decide  what 
American  lyrics  are  best  worthy  of  preservation. 
That  every  reader  of  the  "  American  Treasury  "  will 
find  some  favorite  poem  omitted,  there  can  be  little 
doubt.  But  the  effort  made  in  this  book  towards  a 

vU 


PREFACE. 

careful  estimate  of  our  lyrical  poetry  is  at  any  rate,  I 
feel  sure,  in  a  good  direction. 

There  appear  in  the  index  of  Mr.  Stedman's 
"  Poets  of  America "  the  names  of  over  three  hun- 
dred native  writers.  American  verse  in  the  last  half 
century  has  been  extraordinarily  prolific.  It  would 
seem  that  the  time  has  come,  in  the  course  of  our 
national  literature,  for  proving  all  things  and  holding 
fast  that  which  is  good. 

The  fact  that  the  title  of  this  compilation  instantly 
calls  to  mind  that  of  Mr.  Palgrave's  scholarly  collec- 
tion of  English  lyrics  need  not  prove  a  disadvantage 
to  the  book  if  the  purpose  which  led  to  the  choice 
of  name  is  understood.  The  verse  of  a  single  cen- 
tury produced  in  a  new  country  should  not  be 
expected  to  equal  the  poetic  wealth  of  an  old  and 
intellectual  nation.  But  if  American  poetry  cannot 
hope  to  rival  the  poetry  of  the  mother  country,  it 
may  at  least  be  compared  with  it;  and  the  fact  of 
such  a  comparative  point  of  view  will  aid  rather  than 
hinder  the  student  of  our  native  poetry  in  estimating 
its  value. 

American  verse  has  suffered  at  the  hands  both  of 
its  admirers  and  its  enemies.  Injudicious  praise,  no 
less  than  supercilious  contempt,  has  reacted  unfavor- 
ably on  the  fame  of  our  poets.  Again  and  again  has 
some  minor  versifier  been  hailed  as  the  "  American 
Keats  "  or  the  "  American  Burns."  Really  excellent 

viii  „ 


PREFACE. 


poets,  though  distinctly  poets  of  second  rank,  have 
been  elevated  amid  the  blare  of  critical  trumpets  to 
the  company  of  Wordsworth  and  Milton.  All  this 
is  unprofitable  and  silly.  But  not  much  better  is  the 
attitude  of  certain  critics  who  patronize  everything 
in  the  English  language  which  has  been  written  out- 
side of  England.  Though  America  has  added  — 
barring  Poe  and  Whitman  —  no  distinctly  new  notes 
to  English  poetry,  it  has  added  certainly  not  a  few 
true  ones.  A  nation  need  never  apologize  for  its  lit- 
erature when  it  has  produced  such  lyrics  —  to  go  no 
further  —  as  "  On  a  Bust  of  Dante,"  "  Ichabod," 
«  The  Chambered  Nautilus,"  and  the  "  Waterfowl." 

My  method  of  arrangement  is  roughly  chronolog- 
ical. The  First  Book,  which  is  shorter  than  the 
others,  might  be  called  the  book  of  Bryant;  the 
Second,  of  Longfellow;  and  the  Third,  of  Al- 
drich.  Since  the  periods  must  of  course  overlap, 
this  division  of  the  poems  can  be  at  most  only 
suggestive. 

I  have  made  it  no  part  of  my  design  to  grant  to 
the  better  known  poets  a  larger  number  of  lyrics 
than  those  given  later  and  younger  men.  I  have 
paid  no  regard  to  that  purely  conventional  idea  of 
proportion,  that  would  assign  to  five  or  six  writers 
a  dozen  selections  each,  and  to  another  set  of  poets, 
in  proportion  to  their  popular  fame,  half  that  num- 
ber. We  can  safely  leave  the  final  adjustment  of  all 

iz 


PREFACE. 

rival  claims  to  Time,  the  best  critic ;  in  the  mean- 
while having  the  more  modest  aim  of  selecting,  irre- 
spective of  contemporary  judgments,  whatever  is  best 
suited  to  our  purpose. 

A  word  more  should  be  said  about  the  title.  I  have 
not  interpreted  the  term  lyric  so  rigidly  as  to  exclude 
sonnets,  ballads,  elegiac  verse,  or  even  pieces  of  al- 
most pure  description.  If  I  had  held  to  the  strictest 
sense  of  lyric,  this  book  would  never  have  been  com- 
piled; for  I  suspect  nothing  will  strike  the  reader 
more  forcibly  than  the  fact  that,  despite  the  excel- 
lence of  the  poems  included,  there  is  a  notable  lack 
of  unconsciousness  —  of  pure  singing  quality.  Such 
things  as  Pinkney's  "Health"  and  Holmes's  "Old 
Ironsides  "  are  the  exception.  The  poems  are  com- 
posed cleverly,  but  they  do  not  quite  sing  themselves 
to  their  own  music.  The  best  American  verse,  while 
not  insincere,  is  seldom  wholly  spontaneous.  This  is 
not  saying  that  much  spontaneous  verse  has  not  been 
written  in  this  country ;  much  has  been,  but  the  sing- 
er's voice  has  too  often  been  uncultivated,  and  the 
product  inartistic. 

The  names  of  many  popular  poets  are  entirely 
omitted.  In  no  case,  however,  was  this  probably  due 
to  oversight.  I  have  gone  over  carefully  a  wide  field 
of  verse,  not  without  finding  much  to  admire,  but 
never  quite  happening  upon  that  final  touch  of  suc- 
cessful achievement  where  art  and  inspiration  join. 


PREFACE, 

fn  the  earlier  editions  of  this  book,  there  were  no 
selections  from  Walt  Whitman,  but  after  due  reflec- 
tion I  have  thought  it  best  to  include  several  of  the 
more  lyrical  passages  from  Mr.  Whitman's  "  Leaves 
of  Grass." 

I  wish  to  acknowledge  various  favors  kindly  shown 
by  Professor  C.  T.  Winchester,  Professor  Barrett  Wen- 
dell, and  Mr.  H.  E.  Scudder.  Thanks  are  also  due 
Mr.  T.  B.  Aldrich  for  the  privilege  of  including  the 
six  poems  from  his  pen,  which  were  kindly  selected 
for  the  book  by  the  poet  himself.  The  following 
firms  deserve  thanks  for  permitting  the  use  of  copy- 
righted poems : 

Houghton,  Mifflin  &*  Co.  : 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich,  Christopher  Pearse 
Cranch,  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  Annie  Adams 
Fields,  Louise  Imogen  Guiney9  Francis  Bret 
Harte,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  William  Dean 
Howells,  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow,  James 
Russell  Lowell,  Kate  Putnam  Osgood,  Thomas 
William  Parsons,  Lizette  Woodworth  Reese, 
Hiram  Rich,  Edward  Rowland  Sill,  Harriet 
Prescott  Spofford,  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman, 
Bayard  Taylor,  Edith  Matilda  Thomas,  Henry 
David  Thoreau,  Maurice  Thompson,  John 
Greenleaf  Whittier,  George  Edward  Woodberry. 
Selections  from  the  works  of  the  foregoing  writers 


PREFACE. 

are  included  "  by  permission  of  and  by  special  ar- 
rangement with  Hough  ton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  publishers 
of  the  works  of  said  authors." 

D.  Appleton  &>  Co.  : 

Fitz-Greene  Halleck,  William  Cullen  Bryant. 

Lee  &  Shepard  : 

Julia  Ward  Howe. 

Henry  T.  Coates  &  Co.  : 

Charles  Fenno  Hoffman. 

Little,  Brown  &>  Co.  : 

Emily  Dickinson,  Helen  Hunt  Jackson,  Louise 
Chandler  Moulton. 

Small,  Maynard  <Sr»  Co.  : 

John    Banister    Tabb,    Richard    Hovey,    Bliss 
Carman. 

The  Century  Co. : 

Richard  Watson  Gilder,  James  Whitcomb  Riley 
(Poems  in  the  Century  Magazine}. 

Dana  Estes  &  Co.  : 
Lloyd  Mifflin. 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons  : 

Robert  Cameron  Rogers. 

xii 


PREFACE. 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons  : 

Henry  Cuyler  Bunner,  Eugene  Field,  Sidney 
Lanier,  Richard  Henry  Stoddard,  Henry  Van 
Dyke. 

The  editor  would  make  personal  acknowledgments 
to  the  following  who  have  given  individual  per- 
mission to  include  copyright  poems :  Mrs.  S.  P. 
McL.  Greene,  Miss  M.  T.  Janvier,  Mr.  W.  H. 
Thompson,  and  Mr.  R.  C.  Rogers.  He  also  wishes 
to  thank  Mr.  Horace  Traubel,  literary  executor  of 
Walt  Whitman,  for  the  privilege  of  including  the 
extracts  from  "  Leaves  of  Grass." 


xiii 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Absence  of  Little  Wesley,  The 

.  /.  W.  Riley 

.  280 

Aladdin      

J.  R.  Lowell 

.    128 

Annabel  Lee     .... 

.E.A.Poe     . 

10 

Ascent,  The       .... 

.    W.  Whitman       . 

•   173 

At  Gibraltar      .... 

.   G.  E.   Woodberry 

.   273 

At  Last      

.   R.H.  Stoddard  . 

.    153 

J.  R.  Lowell 

.       192 

Ballad        

.  H.  P.  Spofford    . 

.      202 

Battle-field,  The 

.    W.  C.  Bryant      . 

•       54 

Battle-hymn  of  the  Republic    . 

.  J.  W  '.  Howe 

.     108 

Bedouin  Song   .... 

.   B.  Taylor     . 

.      85 

Bereaved    

.  J.  W.  Riley           .        . 

.    263 

Birds          

.   R.H.  Stoddard  . 

•     »93 

Black  Regiment,  The 

.    G.  H.  Boker 

.       ICO 

Carol  of  Death,  The 

.    IV.  Whitman 

.    98 

Carolina     

.   H.  Timrod  . 

.    104 

Chambered  Nautilus,  The 

.    O.  W.  Holmes     . 

.  178 

Chariot,  The      .... 

.   E.  Dickinson 

.  264 

City  in  the  Sea,  The 

.E.A.Poe    . 

•     15 

Concord  Hymn 

.   R.  W.  Emerson  . 

•       74 

Confided    

.  J.  B.  Tabb    . 

.     266 

Coronation         .... 

.  H.  H.Jackson      . 

•     183 

Crowded  Street,  The 

.    W.  C.  Bryant      . 

.       42 

Day  is  Done,  The     . 

.   H.  W.  Longfellow       . 

.       66 

Days          

.   R.  W  .  Emerson  . 

.     126 

Death-bed,  A    .... 

J.  A  Idrich    . 

.     136 

De  Sheepfol'    .... 

.   S.  P.  McL.  Greene      . 

.     225 

CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Destiny      

.    T.  B  A  Idrich 

Dirge  for  a  Soldier    .        .        . 

.   G.  H.  Boker 

.     106 

Discoverer,  The        .        .        . 

.E.G.  Stedman    . 

.     150 

Driving  Home  the  Cows 

.  K.  P.  Osgood 

.     301 

Dutch  Lullaby  .... 

.  E.  Field 

.    284 

Dying  Lover,  The     .         »        , 

.R.H.  Stoddard  , 

.     127 

Eavesdropper,  The   . 

208 

Ebb  and  Flow  .... 

.  G.  IV.  Curtis       . 

.    279 

Endymion          .... 

.  H.  IV.  Longfellow      . 

.     190 

Estray,  The        .... 

.   B.  F.  Willson      . 

.     149 

Evening  Song   .... 

Eve's  Daughter 

.  E.  R.  Sill    . 

.    247 

Farragut     

.    IV.  T.  Meredith  . 

.     no 

Fertility      

.   M.  Thompson 

.     294 

Flight,  The        .... 

.  L.Mifflin    . 

.     229 

Flight  of  Youth,  The 

.   R.  H.  Stoddard  . 

.     129 

Fool's  Prayer,  The    . 

.  E.  R.  Sill    . 

.     205 

Four  Winds,  The       . 

.   C.  H.  Luders       . 

.     258 

Frost  

.  E.  M.  Thomas    . 

.     277 

Future,  The      .... 

.   E.  R.  Sill    . 

.     219 

Gondolieds         .        .        .        . 

.  H.H.Jackson     . 

•     iSS 

.   F.  B.  Harte         .        . 

Haunted  Palace       .        .       . 

.   E.  A  .  Poe 

26 

Health,  A          .... 

.E.G.  Pinkney      . 

.         12 

Hebe 

J.  R.  Lowell 

6A 

He  Made  the  Stars  Also  . 

.   L.  Mifflin    . 

.        04 

.  257 

Her  Epitaph      .... 

.    T.  W.  Parsons    . 

.   147 

High  Tide  at  Gettysburg,  The 

.    W.  H.  Thompson 

•   304 

House  of  Death,  The 

.  L.  C.  Moulton      .        . 

.  236 

Humble-bee,  The      . 

.   R.  ]V.  Emerson  . 

.  169 

Hunting  Song   .... 

.   R.Hovey      . 

.  251 

Ichabod     

.  /.  G.  Whittier     . 

.    69 

In  Absence        .... 

.  /.  B.  Tabb    . 

.  267 

.    W.  D.  Howells    . 

.      223 

Indian  Summer 

.   E.  Dickinson        .        . 

.  265 

Inspiration         .... 

,   H.  D.  Thorean    . 

.       94 

In  the  Hospital 

.   M.   W.  Howland 

.       122 

In  the  Twilight 

.  J.  R.  Lowell       . 

.       ^8 

xvi 


CONTENTS. 


Israfel        

E.A.Poe     . 

21 

Jerry  an'  Me     ..... 

H.  Rich 

•      275 

June  ....... 

J.  R.  Lowell 

.      l62 

Katie          

H.  Timrod  . 

.       140 

Kings,  The       

L.  I.  Guiney 

.      211 

Last  Leaf,  The         .... 

O.  W.  Holmes     . 

•      95 

E.  Field 

Little  Wild  Baby      . 

M.  T.Janvier      . 

.    282 

Love  in  the  Winds    .... 

JR.  Hovey 

.     272 

Maryland  Yellow-throat,  The  , 

H.  Van  Dyke       . 

.    287 

Memory     

T.B.Aldrich      . 

.     241 

Mood,  A    

T.B.Aldrich      . 

.    242 

"  My  Life  is  Like  the  Summer  Rose  " 

R.  H.  Wilde 

4 

My  Love    

J.  R.  Lowell 

.     142 

My  Love  for  Thee    .... 

R.  IV.  Gilder 

.     217 

My  Maryland    .        .        .        .        . 

J.  R.  Randall 

•     "3 

My  Playmate    

J.  G.  Whittier     . 

.     130 

My  Strawberry  ..... 

H.H.Jackson      . 

.     167 

Nature        

H.  W.  Longfellow      . 

•       63 

Nature       

H.  D.  Thoreau   . 

.     166 

No  More  

B.  F.  Willson      . 

.     197 

O  Captain  !  My  Captain  ! 

W.  Whitman 

.     188 

"  O  Fairest  of  the  Rural  Maids  "    . 

W.  C.  Bryant      . 

6 

Old  Ironsides    

O.  W.  Holmes     . 

.      76 

Old  Oaken  Bucket,  The   . 

S.  Woodworth     . 

8 

On  a  Bust  of  Dante  .... 

T.  W.  Parsons    . 

.     185 

On  an  Intaglio  Head  of  Minerva     . 

T.  B.  A  Idrich       . 

.    248 

On  the  Death  of  Joseph  Rodman 

Drake          .        . 

F.  G.  Halleck       . 

•      36 

On  the  Life-mask  of  Abraham  Lin- 

coln      

R.  W.  Gilder       . 

.    207 

Paradisi  Gloria         .... 

T.  W.  Parsons    . 

.      201 

Parting       

E.  Dickinson 

.      252 

Poet's  Hope,  A 

W.  E.  Changing 

.         24 

Port  of  Ships,  The    . 

C.  H.  Miller 

.       199 

Prescience          

T.B.Aldrich      . 

.      221 

Raven,  The       

E.A.Poe    . 

•       45 

xvii 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Republic,  The  .... 

.   H.  W.  Longfellow      . 

•      135 

Return,  The      .... 

.   L.  F.  Tooker 

.      260 

Rhodora,  The  .        . 

.  R.  W.  Emerson  . 

.      l65 

Rosary,  The      .... 

.  R.C.  Rogers 

.      308 

Secret,  The        .... 

•   G.  E.  Woodberry        . 

.      290 

Serenade    

.   H.  W.  Longfellow 

•      133 

Serenade,  A       ... 

.E.G.  Pinkney      . 

14 

.   L.  Mifflin     . 

She  Came  and  Went 

.  J.  R.  Lowell 

•       145 

Sigh,  A      

.  H.  P.  Spofford    . 

.       I96 

Silence  of  Love,  The 

.    G.  E.  Woodberry 

.      289 

Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert      . 

.  H.  IV.  Longfellow      . 

•         71 

Skipper  Ireson's  Ride       . 

.  J.  G.  Whittier      . 

•         87 

Sleeper,  The     .... 

.  JS.  A.  Poe    . 

_ 

Song  

.   R.  W.  Gilder       . 

.      208 

Song  (In  Leinster)    . 

.  L.  /.  Guiney         .        . 

•      3" 

Song  

.  /.  Shaw 

3 

Song  

.  E.  C.  Pinkney      . 

.       25 

Song  of  Night  and  Earth,  A    . 

.    W.  Whitman       . 

.     172 

Song  of  the  Camp,  The    . 

.   B.  Taylor     . 

.     119 

Song  of  the  Chattahoochee 

.   S.  Lanier    . 

.     268 

Sparkling  and  Bright 

.   C.  F.  Hoffman     . 

•       32 

Stanzas       

.   C.  P.  Crane  h 

.     181 

Still  in  Thy  Love  I  Trust 

.A.A.  Fields 

.    218 

Strong  as  Death 

.   H.  C.  Bunner 

•    233 

Telling  the  Bees 

.  /.  G.  Whittier      . 

•     137 

J.  B.  Brown         .        . 

154 

That  Day  You  Came 

.   L.  IV.  Reese 

.     224 

Thought    

.  H.  H.Jackson     . 

.     180 

Tide  Rises,  the  Tide  Falls,  The 

.   H.  W.  Longfellow      . 

.     161 

To  a  Dead  Woman    . 

.   H.  C.  Bunner 

.     209 

To  America       .... 

.   G.  H.  Boker 

•      75 

To  a  Waterfowl 

.    W.  C.  Bryant      . 

.      29 

To  a  Young  Girl  Dying    . 

.    T.  W.  Parsons    . 

.     198 

To  England       .... 

.   G.  H.  Boker 

•      79 

To  Helen  

.   E.  A  .  Poe    . 

•       31 

To  One  in  Paradise  . 

.  E.A.  Poe    . 

.       34 

To  the  Dandelion      . 

.  J.  R.  Lowell 

•     175 

CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

To  the  Fringed  Gentian  .  .  .  W.  C.  Bryant  ...  40 
To  the  Man-of- War-Bird .  .  .  IV.  Whitman  .  .  .117 

To  the  Past W.  C.  Bryant  ...  18 

Toujours  Amour  .  .  .  .E.G.  Stedman  •  .  .  194 

Triumph H.  C.  Bunner  .  .  .213 

Tropical  Morning  at  Sea,  A  .  .  E.R.Sill  .  .  .  .238 
Under  the  Violets  .  .  .  .  O.  W.  Holmes  .  .  .124 
Unmanifest  Destiny  .  .  .  R.  Hovey  .  .  .  .  311 
Vagabond  Song,  A  .  .  .  .  B.  Carman  ....  230 
Valley  of  Unrest,  The  .  .  .  E.A.Poe  ....  38 

Veery,  The H.  Van  Dyke  .  .  .295 

Village  Blacksmith,  The  .  .  .  H.  IV .  Longfellow  .  .  92 

Waiting J.  Burroughs  .  .  .227 

Way  to  Arcady,  The  .  .  .  H.  C.  Bunner  .  .  .243 
Were  but  My  Spirit  Loosed  upon 

the  Air L.  C.  Moulton  .  .  .278 

When  the  Sultan  Goes  to  Ispahan  .  T.  B.  A  Idrich  .  .  .253 
Whip-poor-will,  The  .  .  .  H.  Van  Dyke  .  .  .291 
White  Jessamine,  The  .  .  .  /.  B.  Tabb  .  .  .  .235 
Wild  Honeysuckle,  The  .  .  .P.  Freneau  i 

Woods  That  Bring  the  Sunset  Near, 

The R.  W.  Gilder  .  .  .216 

Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,  The  .  .  H.  IV.  Longfellow  .  .  80 


xix 


BOOK  FIRST, 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS 


flower,  that  dost  so  comely  grow, 
Hid  in  this  silent,  dull  retreat, 
Untouched  thy  honey'd  blossoms  blow, 
Unseen  thy  little  branches  greet ; 
No  roving  foot  shall  crush  thee  here, 
No  busy  hand  provoke  a  tear. 

By  Nature's  self  in  white  arrayed, 

She  bade  thee  shun  the  vulgar  eye, 
And  planted  here  the  guardian  shade, 
And  sent  soft  waters  murmuring  by ; 
Thus  quietly  thy  summer  goes,  — 
Thy  days  declining  to  repose. 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 

Smit  with  those  charms,  that  must  decay, 

I  grieve  to  see  your  future  doom ; 
They  died  —  nor  were  those  flowers  more  gay  - 
The  flowers  that  did  in  Eden  bloom  ; 
Unpitying  frosts  and  Autumn's  power 
Shall  leave  no  vestige  of  this  flower. 

From  morning  suns  and  evening  dews 

At  first  thy  little  being  came ; 
If  nothing  once,  you  nothing  lose, 
For  when  you  die  you  are  the  same ; 
The  space  between  is  but  an  hour, 
The  frail  duration  of  a  flower. 

P.  FRENEAU. 


SONG. 


gong. 

XITHO  has  robbed  the  ocean  cave, 

To  tinge  thy  lips  with  coral  hue  ? 
Who  from  India's  distant  wave 

For  thee  those  pearly  treasures  drew  ? 
Who  from  yonder  orient  sky 
Stole  the  morning  of  thine  eye  ? 

Thousand  charms,  thy  form  to  deck, 

From  sea,  and  earth,  and  air  are  torn; 
Roses  bloom  upon  thy  cheek, 

On  thy  breath  their  fragrance  borne. 
Guard  thy  bosom  from  the  day, 
Lest  thy  snows  should  melt  away. 

But  one  charm  remains  behind, 

Which  mute  earth  can  ne'er  impart ; 
Ncr  in  ocean  wilt  thou  find, 
Nor  in  the  circling  air,  a  heart. 
Fairest !  wouldst  thou  perfect  be, 
Take,  oh,  take  that  heart  from  me. 

J.  SHAW. 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


£ife  fe  feifte  t$e  Rummer 


TV/T  Y  life  is  like  the  summer  rose 

That  opens  to  the  morning  sky, 
But  ere  the  shades  of  evening  close, 

Is  scattered  on  the  ground  —  to  die  ! 
Yet  on  the  rose's  humble  bed 
The  sweetest  dews  of  night  are  shed, 
As  if  she  wept  the  waste  to  see,  — 
But  none  shall  weep  a  tear  for  me  ! 

My  life  is  like  the  autumn  leaf 

That  trembles  in  the  moon's  pale  ray  ; 
Its  hold  is  frail,  —  its  date  is  brief, 

Restless,  —  and  soon  to  pass  away  ! 
Yet  ere  that  leaf  shall  fall  and  fade, 
The  parent  tree  will  mourn  its  shade, 
The  winds  bewail  the  leaness  tree,  —  •  •  ' 
But  none  shall  breathe  a  sigh  for  me  ! 

My  life  is  like  the  prints  which  feet 
Have  left  on  Tampa's  desert  strand  ; 

Soon  as  the  rising  tide  shall  beat, 
All  trace  will  vanish  from  the  sand  ; 


<MY   LIFE   IS   LIKE   THE   SUMMER   ROSE." 

Yet,  as  if  grieving  to  efface 

All  vestige  of  the  human  race, 

On  that  lone  shore  loud  moans  the  sea,  — 

But  none,  alas  !  shall  mourn  for  me  ! 

R.  H.  WILDE. 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


Scwerf  of  tye  (guraf 


/^V   FAIREST  of  the  rural  maids  ! 

Thy  birth  was  in  the  forest  shades ; 
Green  boughs,  and  glimpses  of  the  sky, 
Were  all  that  met  thine  infant  eye. 

Thy  sports,  thy  wanderings,  when  a  child, 
Were  ever  in  the  sylvan  wild ; 
And  all  the  beauty  of  the  place 
Is  in  thy  heart  and  on  thy  face. 

The  twilight  of  the  trees  and  rocks 
Is  in  the  light  shade  of  thy  locks; 
Thy  step  is  as  the  wind,  that  weaves 
Its  playful  way  among  the  leaves. 

Thine  eyes  are  springs,  in  whose  serene 
And  silent  waters  heaven  is  seen ; 
Their  lashes  are  the  herbs  that  look 
On  their  young  figures  in  the  brook. 


«O   FAIREST   OF   THE   RURAL   MAIDS  I" 

The  forest  depths,  by  foot  impressed, 
Are  not  more  sinless  than  thy  breast ; 
The  holy  peace  that  fills  the  air 
Of  those  calm  solitudes  is  there. 

W.  C.  BRYANT. 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


TT  OW  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my 
childhood, 

When  fond  recollection  presents  them  to  view  !  — 

The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  deep-tangled  wild- 
wood, 

And  every  loved  spot  which  my  infancy  knew ! 

The  wide-spreading  pond,  and  the  mill  that  stood 
by  it; 

The  bridge,  and  the  rock  where  the  cataract  fell ; 

The  cot  of  my  father,  the  dairy-house  nigh  it ; 

And  e'en  the  rude  bucket  that  hung  in  the  well, — 

The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 

The  moss-covered  bucket  which  hung  in  the  well. 

That  moss-covered  vessel  I  hailed  as  a  treasure ; 
For  often  at  noon,  when  returned  from  the  field, 
I  found  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite  pleasure,  — 
The  purest  and  sweetest  that  nature  can  yield. 
How  ardent  I  seized  it,  with  hands  that  were  glow 

ing, 

And  quick  to  the  white-pebbled  bottom  it  fell ! 
Then  soon,  with  the  emblem  of  truth  overflowing, 
And  dripping  with  coolness,  it  rose  from  the  well,  — 

8 


THE   OLD   OAKEN    BUCKET. 


The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket  arose  from  the  well. 

How  sweet  from  the  green,  mossy  brim  to  receive  it, 

As,  poised  on  the  curb,  it  inclined  to  my  lips ! 

Not  a  full,  blushing  goblet  could  tempt  me  to  leave 

it, 

The  brightest  that  beauty  or  revelry  sips. 
And  now,  far  removed  from  the  loved  habitation, 
The  tear  of  regret  will  intrusively  swell, 
As  fancy  reverts  to  my  father's  plantation, 
And  sighs  for  the  bucket  that  hangs  in  the  well,  — 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket  that  hangs  in  the  well. 

S.  WOODWORTH. 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


(ftnnafief  £ee. 

T  T  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee ; 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thought 

Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 

I  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love, 

I  and  my  Annabel  Lee  ; 
With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee ; 
So  that  her  highborn  kinsmen  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 


ANNABEL   LEE. 

The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me ; 
Yes,  that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night, 

Chilling  and  killing  my  Annabel  Lee. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we, 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we ; 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above, 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 

For  the  moon  never  beams,  without   bringing   me 
dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee ; 
And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee ; 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  I  lie  down  by  the  side 
Of  my  darling,  —  my  darling,  —  my  life  and  my  bride, 

In  her  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea, 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 

E.  A.  POE. 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


$  $  eaftfl. 

T  FILL  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone,  — 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon ; 
To  whom  the  better  elements 

And  kindly  stars  have  given 
A  form  so  fair,  that,  like  the  air, 

'Tis  less  of  earth  than  heaven. 

Her  every  tone  is  music's  own, 

Like  those  of  morning  birds ; 
And  something  more  than  melody 

Dwells  ever  in  her  words ; 
The  coinage  of  her  heart  are  they, 

And  from  her  lips  each  flows 
As  one  may  see  the  burden'd  bee 

Forth  issue  from  the  rose. 

Affections  are  as  thoughts  to  her, 
The  measures  of  her  hours ; 

Her  feelings  have  the  fragrancy, 
The  freshness  of  young  flowers ; 

12 


A   HEALTH. 

And  lovely  passions,  changing  oft, 

So  fill  her,  she  appears 
The  image  of  themselves  by  turns,  — 

The  idol  of  past  years ! 

Of  her  bright  face  one  glance  will  trace 

A  picture  on  the  brain ; 
And  of  her  voice  in  echoing  hearts 

A  sound  must  long  remain ; 
But  memory,  such  as  mine  of  her, 

So  very  much  endears. 
When  death  is  nigh,  my  latest  sigh 

Will  not  be  life's,  but  hers. 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone,  — 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon. 
Her  health !  and  would  on  earth  there  stood 

Some  more  of  such  a  frame, 
That  life  might  be  all  poetry, 

And  weariness  a  name. 

E.    C.    PlNKNEY. 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


T    OOK  out  upon  the  stars,  my  love, 

And  shame  them  with  thine  eyes, 
On  which,  than  on  the  lights  above, 

There  hang  more  destinies. 
Night's  beauty  is  the  harmony 

Of  blending  shades  and  light: 
Then,  lady,  up,  —  look  out,  and  be 

A  sister  to  the  night ! 

Sleep  not !  —  thine  image  wakes  for  aye 

Within  my  watching  breast ; 
Sleep  not !  —  from  her  soft  sleep  should  fly, 

Who  robs  all  hearts  of  rest. 
Nay,  lady,  from  thy  slumbers  break, 

And  make  this  darkness  gay, 
With  looks  whose  brightness  well  might  make 

Of  darker  nights  a  day. 

E.    C.    PlNKNEY. 


THE   CITY   IN   THE   SEA. 


in 


T   O  !  Death  has  reared  himself  a  throne 

In  a  strange  city  lying  alone 
Far  down  within  the  dim  West, 
Where  the  good  and  the  bad  and  the  worst  and  the 

best 

Have  gone  to  their  eternal  rest. 
There  shrines  and  palaces  and  towers 
(Time-eaten  towers  that  tremble  not) 
Resemble  nothing  that  is  ours. 
Around,  by  lifting  winds  forgot, 
Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 
The  melancholy  waters  lie. 

No  rays  from  the  holy  heaven  come  down 
On  the  long  night-time  of  that  town  ; 
But  light  from  out  the  lurid  sea 
Streams  up  the  turrets  silently, 
Gleams  up  the  pinnacles  far  and  free  : 
Up  domes,  up  spires,  up  kingly  halls, 
Up  fanes,  up  Babylon-like  walls, 
Up  shadowy,  long-forgotten  bowers 
Of  sculptured  ivy  and  stone  flowers, 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


Up  many  and  many  a  marvellous  shrine, 
Whose  wreathed  friezes  intertwine 
The  viol,  the  violet,  and  the  vine. 

Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 

The  melancholy  waters  lie. 

So  blend  the  turrets  and  shadows  there 

That  all  seem  pendulous  in  air, 

While  from  a  proud  tower  in  the  town 

Death  looks  gigantically  down. 

There  open  fanes  and  gaping  graves 

Yawn  level  with  the  luminous  waves ; 

But  not  the  riches  there  that  lie 

In  each  idol's  diamond  eye,  — 

Not  the  gaily-jewelled  dead 

Tempt  the  waters  from  their  bed ; 

For  no  ripples  curl,  alas, 

Along  that  wilderness  of  glass ; 

No  swellings  tell  that  winds  may  be 

Upon  some  far-off  happier  sea ; 

No  heavings  hint  that  winds  have  been 

On  seas  less  hideously  serene ! 

But  lo,  a  stir  is  in  the  air ! 

The  wave  —  there  is  a  movement  there ! 


16 


THE   CITY    IN   THE   SEA. 

As  if  the  towers  had  thrust  aside, 
In  slightly  sinking,  the  dull  tide ; 
As  if  their  tops  had  feebly  given 
A  void  within  the  filmy  Heaven ! 
The  waves  have  now  a  redder  glow, 
The  hours  are  breathing  faint  and  low ; 
And  when,  amid  no  earthly  moans, 
Down,  down  that  town  shall  settle  hence, 
Hell,  rising  from  a  thousand  thrones, 
Shall  do  it  reverence. 

E.   A.  POE. 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


to 


THOU  unrelenting  Past  ! 
Strong  are  the  barriers  round  thy  dark  domain, 

And  fetters,  sure  and  fast, 
Hold  all  that  enter  thy  unbreathing  reign. 

Far  in  thy  realm  withdrawn, 
Old  empires  sit  in  sullenness  and  gloom, 

And  glorious  ages  gone 
Lie  deep  within  the  shadow  of  thy  womb. 

Childhood,  with  all  its  mirth, 
Youth,  Manhood,  Age  that  draws  us  to  the  ground, 

And  last,  Man's  Life  on  earth, 
Glide  to  thy  dim  dominions,  and  are  bound. 

Thou  hast  my  better  years  ; 
Thou  hast  my  earlier  friends,  the  good,  the  kind, 

Yielded  to  thee  with  tears,  — 
The  venerable  form,  the  exalted  mind. 

My  spirit  yearns  to  bring 
The  lost  ones  back,  —  yearns  with  desire  intense, 

18 


TO   THE   PAST. 

And  struggles  hard  to  wring 
Thy  bolts  apart,  and  pluck  thy  captives  thence. 

In  vain ;  thy  gates  deny 
All  passage  save  to  those  who  hence  depart ; 

Nor  to  the  streaming  eye 
Thou  giv'st  them  back,  —  nor  to  the  broken  heart. 

In  thy  abysses  hide 
Beauty  and  excellence  unknown ;  to  thee 

Earth's  wonder  and  her  pride 
Are  gathered,  as  the  waters  to  the  sea ; 

Labors  of  good  to  man, 
Unpublished  charity,  unbroken  faith, 

Love,  that  midst  grief  began, 
And  grew  with  years,  and  faltered  not  in  death. 

Full  many  a  mighty  name 
Lurks  in  thy  depths,  unuttered,  unrevered ; 

With  thee  are  silent  fame, 
Forgotten  arts,  and  wisdom  disappeared. 

Thine  for  a  space  are  they,  — 
Yet  shalt  thou  yield  thy  treasures  up  at  last ! 

Thy  gates  shall  yet  give  way, 
Thy  bolts  shall  fall,  inexorable  Past ! 

19 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 

All  that  of  good  and  fair 
Has  gone  into  thy  womb  from  earliest  time, 

Shall  then  come  forth,  to  wear 
The  glory  and  the  beauty  of  its  prime. 

They  have  not  perished,  —  no ! 
Kind  words,  remembered  voices  once  so  sweet, 

Smiles,  radiant  long  ago, 
And  features,  the  great  soul's  apparent  seat ; 

All  shall  come  back,  each  tie 
Of  pure  affection  shall  be  knit  again ; 

Alone  shall  Evil  die, 
And  Sorrow  dwell  a  prisoner  in  thy  reign. 

And  then  shall  I  behold 
Him,  by  whose  kind  paternal  side  I  sprung, 

And  her,  who,  still  and  cold, 
Fills  the  next  grave,  —  the  beautiful  and  young. 

W.  C.  BRYANT. 


20 


iSRAFEL. 


And  the  angel  Israfel,  whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute,  and  who  has  the 
sweetest  voice  of  all  God's  creatures. 

—  Koran. 

T  N  Heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell 

Whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute ; 
None  sing  so  wildly  well 
As  the  angel  Israfel, 
And  the  giddy  stars  (so  legends  tell), 
Ceasing  their  hymns,  attend  the  spell 
Of  his  voice,  all  mute. 

Tottering  above 

In  her  highest  noon, 

The  enamored  moon 
Blushes  with  love, 

While,  to  listen,  the  red  levin 

(With  the  rapid  Pleiads,  even, 

Which  were  seven) 

Pauses  in  Heaven. 

And  they  say  (the  starry  choir 
And  the  other  listening  things) 

*i 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 

That  Israfeli's  fire 
Is  owing  to  that  lyre 

By  which  he  sits  and  sings, — 
The  trembling  living  wire 
Of  those  unusual  strings. 

But  the  skies  that  angel  trod, 
Where  deep  thoughts  are  a  duty, 

Where  Love's  a  grown-up  God, 

Where  the  Houri  glances  are 
Imbued  with  all  the  beauty 

Which  we  worship  in  a  star. 

Therefore  thou  art  not  wrong, 

Israfeli,  who  despisest 
An  unimpassioned  song ; 
To  thee  the  laurels  belong, 

Best  bard,  because  the  wisest : 
Merrily  live,  and  long  ! 

The  ecstasies  above 

With  thy  burning  measures  suit : 

Thy  grief,  thy  joy,  thy  hate,  thy  love, 
With  the  fervor  of  thy  lute : 
Well  may  the  stars  be  mute ! 

22 


ISRAFEL. 

Yes,  Heaven  is  thine ;  but  this 
Is  a  world  of  sweets  and  sours ; 
Our  flowers  are  merely  —  flowers, 

And  the  shadow  of  thy  perfect  bliss 
Is  the  sunshine  of  ours. 

If  I  could  dwell 
Where  Israfel 

Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 
He  might  not  sing  so  wildly  well 

A  mortal  melody, 
While  a  bolder  note  than  this  might  swell 

From  my  lyre  within  the  sky. 

E.  A.  POE. 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


S~\  TIME  !  O  Death  !  I  clasp  you  in  my  arms, 

For  I  can  soothe  an  infinite  cold  sorrow, 
And  gaze  contented  on  your  icy  charms 

And  that  wild  snow-pile  which  we  call  to-morrow; 
Sweep  on,  O  soft  and  azure-lidded  sky, 
Earth's  waters  to  your  gentle  gaze  reply. 

I  am  not  earth-born,  though  I  here  delay ; 

Hope's  child,  I  summon  infiniter  powers, 
And  laugh  to  see  the  mild  and  sunny  day 

Smile  on  the  shrunk  and  thin  autumnal  hours ; 
I  laugh,  for  hope  hath  happy  place  with  me,  — 
If  my  bark  sinks,  His  to  another  sea. 

W.  E.  CHANNINO 


SONG. 


"I1TE  break  the  glass,  whose  sacred  wine 

To  some  beloved  health  we  drain, 
Lest  future  pledges,  less  divine, 

Should  e'er  the  hallowed  toy  profane ; 
And  thus  I  broke  a  heart  that  poured 

Its  tide  of  feelings  out  for  thee, 
In  draughts,  by  after-times  deplored, 

Yet  dear  to  memory. 

But  still  the  old,  impassioned  ways 

And  habits  of  my  mind  remain, 
And  still  unhappy  light  displays 

Thine  image  chambered  in  my  brain, 
And  still  it  looks  as  when  the  hours 

Went  by  like  flights  of  singing  birds, 
Or  that  soft  chain  of  spoken  flowers 

And  airy  gems,  —  thy  words. 

E.    C,    PlNKNEY. 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


$aface. 

T  N  the  greenest  of  our  valleys 

By  good  angels  tenanted, 
Once  a  fair  and  stately  palace  — 

Radiant  palace  —  reared  its  head. 
In  the  monarch  Thought's  dominion, 

It  stood  there ; 
Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 

Over  fabric  half  so  fair. 

Banners  yellow,  glorious,  golden, 

On  its  roof  did  float  and  flow 
(This  —  all  this  —  was  in  the  olden 

Time  long  ago), 
And  every  gentle  air  that  dallied, 

In  that  sweet  day, 
Along  the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid, 

A  winged  odor  went  away. 

Wanderers  in  that  happy  valley 

Through  two  luminous  windows  saw 

Spirits  moving  musically, 
To  a  lute's  well-tuned  law, 

26 


THE   HAUNTED   PALACE. 


Round  about  a  throne  where,  sitting, 

Porphyrogene, 
In  state  his  glory  well  befitting, 

The  ruler  of  the  realm  was  seen. 

And  all  with  pearl  and  ruby  glowing 

Was  the  fair  palace  door, 
Through  which  came  flowing,  flowing,  flowing. 

And  sparkling  evermore, 
A  troop  of  Echoes,  whose  sweet  duty 

Was  but  to  sing, 
In  voices  of  surpassing  beauty, 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of  their  king. 

But  evil  things,  in  robes  of  sorrow, 

Assailed  the  monarch's  high  estate ; 
(Ah,  let  us  mourn,  for  never  morrow 

Shall  dawn  upon  him  desolate  ! ) 
And  round  about  his  home  the  glory 

That  blushed  and  bloomed 
Is  but  a  dim-remembered  story 

Of  the  old  time  entombed. 

And  travellers  now  within  that  valley 
Through  the  red-litten  windows  see 

Vast  forms  that  move  fantastically 
To  a  discordant  melody ; 

27 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 

While,  like  a  ghastly  rapid  river, 

Through  the  pale  door 
A  hideous  throng  rush  out  forever, 

And  laugh  —  but  smile  no  more. 

E.  A.  POE. 


TO   A   WATERFOWL. 


$0  a 


WHITHER,  midst  falling  dew, 
While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way  ? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 

Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean-side  ? 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast  — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air  — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

29 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end ; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows ;  reeds  shall  bend, 

Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form ;  yet,  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart : 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 

Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 

W.  C.  BRYANT, 


TO   HELEN. 


£o  jE>efen* 

TT  ELEN,  thy  beauty  is  to  me 

Like  those  Nicaean  barks  of  yore, 
That  gently,  o'er  a  perfumed  sea, 

The  weary,  wayworn  wanderer  bore 

To  his  own  native  shore. 

On  desperate  seas  long  wont  to  roam, 
Thy  hyacinth  hair,  thy  classic  face, 

Thy  Naiad  airs,  have  brought  me  home 
To  the  glory  that  was  Greece 

And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome. 

Lo !  in  yon  brilliant  window-niche 
How  statue-like  I  see  thee  stand, 
The  agate  lamp  within  thy  hand  ! 

Ah,  Psyche,  from  the  regions  which 
Are  Holy  Land  1 

E.  A.  POE. 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


and 


CPARKLING  and  bright  in  liquid  light 
Does  the  wine  our  goblets  gleam  in, 
With  hue  as  red  as  the  rosy  bed 

Which  a  bee  would  choose  to  dream  in. 
Then  fill  to-night,  with  hearts  as  light, 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beaker's  brim, 
And  break  on  the  lips  while  meeting. 

Oh  !  if  Mirth  might  arrest  the  flight 

Of  Time  through  Life's  dominions, 
We  here  awhile  would  now  beguile 
The  graybeard  of  his  pinions, 

To  drink  to-night,  with  hearts  as  light, 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beaker's  brim, 
And  break  on  the  lips  while  meeting. 

But  since  Delight  can't  tempt  the  wight, 

Nor  fond  Regret  delay  him, 
Nor  Love  himself  can  hold  the  elf, 

Nor  sober  Friendship  stay  him, 


SPARKLING  AND   BRIGHT. 

We'll  drink  to-night,  with  hearts  as  light, 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beaker's  brim, 

And  break  on  the  lips  while  meeting. 

C.  F.  HOFFMAN. 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


in 


*HPHOU  wast  all  that  to  me,  love, 
For  which  my  soul  did  pine : 
A  green  isle  in  the  sea,  love, 

A  fountain  and  a  shrine 
All  wreathed  with  fairy  fruits  and  flowers^ 

And  all  the  flowers  were  mine. 


Ah,  dream  too  bright  to  last ! 

Ah,  starry  Hope,  that  didst  arise 
But  to  be  overcast ! 

A  voice  from  out  the  Future  cries, 
«  On !  on !  "  —  but  o'er  the  Past 

(Dim  gulf  ! )  my  spirit  hovering  lies 
Mute,  motionless,  aghast. 

For,  alas !  alas !  with  me 

The  light  of  Life  is  o'er ! 

No  more  —  no  more  —  no  more  — 
(Such  language  holds  the  solemn  sea 

To  the  sands  upon  the  shore) 
Shall  bloom  the  thunder-blasted  tree, 

Or  the  stricken  eagle  soar. 


TO   ONE   IN   PARADISE. 

And  all  my  days  are  trances, 

And  all  my  nightly  dreams 
Are  where  thy  dark  eye  glances, 

And  where  thy  footstep  gleams,  — 
In  what  ethereal  dances, 

By  what  eternal  streams. 

E.  A.  POE. 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


t$e  ©eaf0  of 

©rafte. 


/^  KEEN  be  the  turf  above  thee, 

Friend  of  my  better  days ! 
None  knew  thee  but  to  love  thee, 
Nor  named  thee  but  to  praise. 


Tears  fell  when  thou  wert  dying, 
From  eyes  unused  to  weep, 

And  long,  where  thou  art  lying, 
Will  tears  the  cold  turf  steep. 

When  hearts,  whose  truth  was  proven, 
Like  thine,  are  laid  in  earth, 

There  should  a  wreath  be  woven 
To  tell  the  world  their  worth ; 

And  I,  who  woke  each  morrow 
To  clasp  thy  hand  in  mine, 

Who  shared  thy  joy  and  sorrow, 
Whose  weal  and  woe  were  thine, 

36 


THE    DEATH    OF   JOSEPH    RODMAN    DRAKE. 

It  should  be  mine  to  braid  it 

Around  thy  faded  brow, 
But  IVe  in  vain  essayed  it, 

And  feel  I  cannot  now. 

While  memory  bids  me  weep  thee, 
Nor  thoughts  nor  words  are  free, 

The  grief  is  fixed  too  deeply 
That  mourns  a  man  like  thee. 

F.  G.  HALLECK. 


37 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


TJaffeg  of 


it  smiled  a  silent  dell 
^^^   Where  the  people  did  not  dwell  ; 
They  had  gone  unto  the  wars, 
Trusting  to  the  mild-eyed  stars, 
Nightly,  from  their  azure  towers, 
To  keep  watch  above  the  flowers, 
In  the  midst  of  which  all  day 
The  red  sunlight  lazily  lay. 
Now  each  visitor  shall  confess 
The  sad  valley's  restlessness. 
Nothing  there  is  motionless, 
Nothing  save  the  airs  that  brood 
Over  the  magic  solitude. 
Ah,  by  no  wind  are  stirred  those  trees 
That  palpitate  like  the  chill  seas 
Around  the  misty  Hebrides  ! 
Ah,  by  no  wind  those  clouds  are  driven 
That  rustle  through  the  unquiet  Heaven 
Uneasily,  from  morn  to  even, 
Over  the  violets  there  that  lie 
In  myriad  types  of  the  human  eye, 
Over  the  lilies  there  that  wave 
And  weep  above  a  nameless  grave  ! 

38 


THE   VALLEY    OF   UNREST. 

They  wave  :  —  from  out  their  fragrant  tops 
Eternal  dews  come  down  in  drops. 
They  weep  :  —  from  off  their  delicate  stems 
Perennial  tears  descend  in  gems. 

E.  A.  POE. 


39 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


rT%HOU  blossom  bright  with  autumn  dew, 

And  colored  with  the  heaven's  own  blue, 
That  openest  when  the  quiet  light 
Succeeds  the  keen  and  frosty  night : 


Thou  comest  not  when  violets  lean 
O'er  wandering  brooks  and  springs  unseen, 
Or  columbines,  in  purple  dressed, 
Nod  o'er  the  ground-bird's  hidden  nest. 

Thou  waitest  late  and  com'st  alone, 
When  woods  are  bare  and  birds  are  flown, 
And  frosts  and  shortening  days  portend 
The  aged  year  is  near  his  end. 

Then  doth  thy  sweet  and  quiet  eye 
Look  through  its  fringes  to  the  sky, 
Blue  —  blue  —  as  if  that  sky  let  fall 
A  flower  from  its  cerulean  wall. 


TO  THE   FRINGED  GENTIAN. 

I  would  that  thus,  when  I  shall  sec 
The  hour  of  death  draw  near  to  me, 
Hope,  blossoming  within  my  heart, 
May  look  to  heaven  as  I  depart. 

W.  C.  BRYANT. 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


Afreet 

T   ET  me  move  slowly  through  the  street, 

Filled  with  an  ever-shifting  train, 
Amid  the  sound  of  steps  that  beat 

The  murmuring  walks  like  autumn  rain. 

How  fast  the  flitting  figures  come ! 

The  mild,  the  fierce,  the  stony  face,  — 
Some  bright  with  thoughtless  smiles,  and  some 

Where  secret  tears  have  left  their  trace. 

They  pass  —  to  toil,  to  strife,  to  rest ; 

To  halls  in  which  the  feast  is  spread; 
To  chambers  where  the  funeral  guest 

In  silence  sits  beside  the  dead. 

And  some  to  happy  homes  repair, 

Where  children,  pressing  cheek  to  cheek, 

With  mute  caresses  shall  declare 
The  tenderness  they  cannot  speak. 

And  some,  who  walk  in  calmness  here, 
Shall  shudder  as  they  reach  the  door 


THE   CROWDED   STREET. 

Where  one  who  made  their  dwelling  dear, 
Its  flower,  its  light,  is  seen  no  more. 

Youth,  with  pale  cheek  and  slender  frame, 
And  dreams  of  greatness  in  thine  eye  ! 

Go'st  thou  to  build  an  early  name, 
Or  early  in  the  task  to  die  ? 

Keen  son  of  trade,  with  eager  brow  ! 

Who  is  now  fluttering  in  thy  snare  ? 
Thy  golden  fortunes,  tower  they  now, 

Or  melt  the  glittering  spires  in  air  ? 

Who  of  this  crowd  to-night  shall  tread 
The  dance  till  daylight  gleam  again  ? 

Who  sorrow  o'er  the  untimely  dead  ? 
Who  writhe  in  throes  of  mortal  pain  ? 

Some,  famine-struck,  shall  think  how  long 
The  cold,  dark  hours,  how  slow  the  light ; 

And  some,  who  flaunt  amid  the  throng, 
Shall  hide  in  dens  of  shame  to-night. 

Each  where  his  tasks  or  pleasures  call, 
They  pass,  and  heed  each  other  not. 

There  is  who  heeds,  who  holds  them  all 
In  His  large  love  and  boundless  thought. 

43 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 

These  struggling  tides  of  life,  that  seem 
In  wayward,  aimless  course  to  tend, 

Are  eddies  of  the  mighty  stream 
That  rolls  to  its  appointed  end. 

W.  C.  BRYANT. 


THE   RAVEN. 


/^VNCE  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered, 

weak  and  weary, 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten 

lore,  — 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came 

a  tapping, 
As  of   some   one  gently   rapping  —  rapping   at   my 

chamber  door. 
"'Tis  some  visitor,"   I   muttered,    "tapping   at   my 

chamber  door, — 

Only  this,  and  nothing  more." 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember,  it  was  in  the  bleak  De- 
cember, 

And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost 
upon  the  floor. 

Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow ;  —  vainly  I  had  sought 
to  borrow 

From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow  —  sorrow  for  the 
lost  Lenore,  — 

For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels 
name  Lenore,  — 

Nameless  here  forevermore. 


45 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 

And  the  silken  sad  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple 

curtain 
Thrilled  me  —  filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors  never 

felt  before ; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I  stood 

repeating 
"  'Tis  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber 

door,  — 
Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber 

door ; — 

This  it  is,  and  nothing  more." 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger ;  hesitating  then  no 

longer, 
"  Sir,"  said   I,    "  or  Madam,  truly  your  forgiveness 

I  implore; 
But  the  fact  is  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you 

came  rapping, 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping  —  tapping  at  my 

chamber  door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you ; " —  here  I  opened 

wide  the  door :  — 

Darkness  there,  and  nothing  more. 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood  there 
wondering,  fearing, 

46 


THE   RAVEN. 

Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortal   ever   dared 

to  dream  before; 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave 

no  token, 
And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the  whispered 

word,  "  Lenore  ?  " 
This  I  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back  the 

word,  "  Lenore :  " 

Merely  this,  and  nothing  more. 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within 

me  burning, 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping  somewhat  louder  than 

before. 
"  Surely,"  said   I,  "  surely  that  is  something  at  my 

window  lattice; 
Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this  mystery 

explore,  — 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment  and  this  mystery 

explore ;  — 

'Tis  the  wind,  and  nothing  more." 

Open  here  I  flung  the   shutter,  when,  with  many  a 

flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  Raven  of  the  saintly  days 

of  yore. 

4? 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 

Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he;   not  a  minute 
stopped  or  stayed  he; 

But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my 
chamber  door  — 

Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  cham- 
ber door  — 

Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into 
smiling 

By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance 
it  wore, 

"Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"    I 
said,  "  art  sure  no  craven, 

Ghastly  grim  and  ancient  Raven  wandering  from  the 
Nightly  shore,  — 

Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's  Plu- 
tonian shore ! " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  dis- 

course  so  plainly, 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning — little  relevancy 

bore; 
For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human 

being 


THE   RAVEN. 

Ever  yet  was  blest  with  seeing  bird  above  his  cham- 
ber door  — 

Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his 
chamber  door, 

With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore." 

But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on   the   placid   bust, 

spoke  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did 

outpour. 
Nothing  further  then  he    uttered  —  not   a    feather 

then  he  fluttered  — 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered,  "  Other  friends 

have  flown  before  — 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  hopes  have 

flown  before." 

Then  the  bird  said,  "  Nevermore." 

Startled   at  the   stillness   broken  by  reply  so  aptly 

spoken, 
"Doubtless,"  said  I,  "what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock 

and  store, 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master  whom  unmerciful 

Disaster 
Followed  fast  and  followed  faster  till  his  songs  one 

burden  bore,  — 

49 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 

Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  that  melancholy  burden 
bore 

Of  '  Never  —  nevermore.'  " 

But   the    Raven   still   beguiling   all   my   fancy   into 

smiling, 
Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird 

and  bust  and  door; 
Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to 

linking 
Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird 

of  yore  — 
What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominous 

bird  of  yore 

Meant  in  croaking  "  Nevermore." 

This    I    sat  engaged   in   guessing,   but   no   syllable 

expressing 
To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  into  my 

bosom's  core; 
This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease 

reclining 
On  the  cushion's  velvet   lining  that  the  lamplight 

gloated  o'er, 
But  whose  velvet  violet  lining  with  the   lamplight 

gloating  o'er 

She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore ! 

50 


THE   RAVEN. 

Then,  methought,   the   air  grew  denser,   perfumed 

from  an  unseen  censer 
Swung  by  Seraphim  whose  footfalls  tinkled  on  the 

tufted  floor. 
"Wretch,"  I  cried,  "thy  God  hath  lent   thee  —  by 

these  angels  He  hath  sent  thee 
Respite  —  respite  and  nepenthe  from  thy  memories 

of  Lenore ! 
Quaff,  oh,  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and  forget  this 

lost  Lenore!" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"Prophet!"  said  I,  "thing  of  evil!  —  prophet  still, 

if  bird  or  devil !  — 
Whether   Tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tossed 

thee  here  ashore, 
Desolate,    yet  all    undaunted,   on   this   desert  land 

enchanted  — 
On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted  —  tell   me   truly, 

I  implore, — 
Is  there,  —  is  there  balm  in  Gilead  ?  —  tell  me  —  tell 

me,  I  implore  !  " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Prophet !  "  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil !  —  prophet  still,  if 
bird  or  devil ! 

5' 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 

By  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us  —  by  that  God 

we  both  adore  — 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within  the  distant 

Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp   a  sainted   maiden  whom   the   angels 

name  Lenore  — 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels 

name  Lenore." 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend ! " 

I  shrieked,  upstarting, — 
"  Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the    Night's 

Plutonian  shore ! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul 

hath  spoken ! 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken !  —  quit  the  bust  above 

my  door ! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form 

from  off  my  door  !  " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is 

sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber 

door; 


THE  RAVEN. 

And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that 

is  dreaming, 
And   the  lamplight  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his 

shadow  on  the  floor; 

And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating 
on  the  floor 

Shall  be  lifted,  —  nevermore ! 

E.  A.  POE. 


S3 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


/~\NCE  this  soft  turf,  this  rivulet's  sands, 
Were  trampled  by  a  hurrying  crowd, 
And  fiery  hearts  and  armed  hands 
Encountered  in  the  battle-cloud. 

Ah !  never  shall  the  land  forget 

How  gushed  the  life-blood  of  her  brave,  — 
Gushed,  warm  with  hope  and  courage  yet, 

Upon  the  soil  they  fought  to  save. 

Now  all  is  calm  and  fresh  and  still; 

Alone  the  chirp  of  flitting  bird, 
And  talk  of  children  on  the  hill, 

And  bell  of  wandering  kine  are  heard. 

No  solemn  host  goes  trailing  by 

The  black-mouthed  gun  and  staggering  wain ; 
Men  start  not  at  the  battle-cry ; 

Oh,  be  it  never  heard  again ! 

Soon  rested  those  who  fought ;  but  thou 
Who  minglest  in  the  harder  strife 

54. 


THE   BATTLE-FIELD. 

For  truths  which  men  receive  not  now, 
Thy  warfare  only  ends  with  life. 

A  friendless  warfare  !  lingering  long 
Through  weary  day  and  weary  year ; 

A  wild  and  many-weaponed  throng 
Hang  on  thy  front  and  flank  and  rear. 

Yet  nerve  thy  spirit  to  the  proof, 
And  blench  not  at  thy  chosen  lot ; 

The  timid  good  may  stand  aloof, 

The  sage  may  frown,  —  yet  faint  thou  not ! 

Nor  heed  the  shaft  too  surely  cast, 
The  foul  and  hissing  bolt  of  scorn, 

For  with  thy  side  shall  dwell,  at  last, 
The  victory  of  endurance  born. 

Truth,  crushed  to  earth,  shall  rise  again; 

The  eternal  years  of  God  are  hers ; 
But  Error,  wounded,  writhes  in  pain, 

And  dies  among  his  worshippers. 

Yea,  though  thou  lie  upon  the  dust, 

When  they  who  helped  thee  flee  in  fear, 

Die  full  of  hope  and  manly  trust, 
Like  those  who  fell  in  battle  here. 


55 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 

Another  hand  thy  sword  shall  wield, 
Another  hand  the  standard  wave, 

Till  from  the  trumpet's  mouth  is  pealed 
The  blast  of  triumph  o'er  thy  grave. 

W.  C.  BRYANT. 


THE   SLEEPER. 


A  T  midnight,  in  the  month  of  June, 
"^  I  stand  beneath  the  mystic  moon. 
An  opiate  vapor,  dewy,  dim, 
Exhales  from  out  her  golden  rim, 
And,  softly  dripping,  drop  by  drop, 
Upon  the  quiet  mountain-top, 
Steals  drowsily  and  musically 
Into  the  universal  valley. 
The  rosemary  nods  upon  the  grave: 
The  lily  lolls  upon  the  wave ; 
Wrapping  the  fog  about  its  breast, 
The  ruin  moulders  into  rest ; 
Looking  like  Lethe,  see !  the  lake 
A  conscious  slumber  seems  to  take, 
And  would  not,  for  the  world,  awake. 
All  beauty  sleeps !  —  and  lo !  where  lies 
Irene,  with  her  destinies ! 

O  lady  bright !  can  it  be  right, 
This  window  open  to  the  night? 
The  wanton  airs  from  the  tree-top 
Laughingly  through  the  lattice  drop ; 


57 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 

The  bodiless  airs,  a  wizard  rout, 

Flit  through  thy  chamber  in  and  out, 

And  wave  the  curtain  canopy 

So  fitfully,  so  fearfully, 

Above  the  closed  and  fringed  lid 

'Neath  which  thy  slumb'ring  soul  lies  hid, 

That,  o'er  the  floor  and  down  the  wall, 

Like  ghosts  the  shadows  rise  and  fall. 

0  lady  dear,  hast  thou  no  fear? 

Why  and  what  art  thou  dreaming  here  ? 
Sure  thou  art  come  o'er  far-off  seas, 
A  wonder  to  these  garden  trees ! 
Strange  is  thy  pallor ;  strange  thy  dress ; 
Strange,  above  all,  thy  length  of  tress, 
And  this  all  solemn  silentness ! 

The  lady  sleeps.     Oh,  may  her  sleep, 
Which  is  enduring,  so  be  deep ! 
Heaven  have  her  in  its  sacred  keep  ! 
This  chamber  changed  for  one  more  holyf 
This  bed  for  one  more  melancholy, 

1  pray  to  God  that  she  may  lie 
Forever  with  unopened  eye, 

While  the  pale  sheeted  ghosts  go  by. 

My  love,  she  sleeps.     Oh,  may  her  sleep, 
As  it  is  lasting,  so  be  deep  ! 

58 


THE   SLEEPER. 

Soft  may  the  worms  about  her  creep  I 
Far  in  the  forest,  dim  and  old, 
For  her  may  some  tall  vault  unfold : 
Some  vault  that  oft  hath  flung  its  black 
And  winged  panels  fluttering  back, 
Triumphant,  o'er  the  crested  palls 
Of  her  grand  family  funerals ; 
Some  sepulchre,  remote,  alone, 
Against  whose  portal  she  hath  thrown, 
In  childhood,  many  an  idle  stone ; 
Some  tomb  from  out  whose  sounding  door 
She  ne'er  shall  force  an  echo  more, 
Thrilling  to  think,  poor  child  of  sin, 
It  was  the  dead  who  groaned  within ! 

E.  A.  POE. 


59 


BOOK  SECOND. 


NATURE. 


A  S  a  fond  mother,  when  the  day  is  o'er, 
"^     Leads  by  the  hand  her  little  child  to  bed, 

Half  willing,  half  reluctant  to  be  led, 
And  leave  his  broken  playthings  on  the  floor, 
Still  gazing  at  them  through  the  open  door, 
Nor  wholly  reassured  and  comforted 
By  promises  of  others  in  their  stead, 
Which,  though  more  splendid,  may  not  please  him 

more,  — 

So  Nature  deals  with  us,  and  takes  away 
Our  playthings  one  by  one,  and  by  the  hand 

Leads  us  to  rest  so  gently,  that  we  go 
Scarce  knowing  if  we  wish  to  go  or  stay, 
Being  too  full  of  sleep  to  understand 

How  far  the  unknown  transcends  the  what  we 
know. 

H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


fefie. 

I  SAW  the  twinkle  of  white  feet, 
I  saw  the  flash  of  robes  descending ; 

Before  her  ran  an  influence  fleet, 
That  bowed  my  heart  like  barley  bending. 

As,  in  bare  fields,  the  searching  bees 
Pilot  to  blooms  beyond  our  finding, 

It  led  me  on,  by  sweet  degrees 
Joy's  simple  honey-cells  unbinding. 

Those  Graces  were  that  seemed  grim  Fates ; 
With  nearer  love  the  sky  leaned  o'er  me ; 

The  long-sought  Secret's  golden  gates 
On  musical  hinges  swung  before  me. 

I  saw  the  brimmed  bowl  in  her  grasp 
Thrilling  with  godhood ;  like  a  lover 

I  sprang  the  proffered  life  to  clasp ;  — 
The  beaker  fell ;  the  luck  was  over. 

The  Earth  has  drunk  the  vintage  up ; 
What  boots  it  patch  the  goblet's  splinters  ? 

Can  Summer  fill  the  icy  cup, 
Whose  treacherous  crystal  is  but  Winter's  ? 


HEBE. 

O  spendthrift  haste !  await  the  Gods ; 
Their  nectar  crowns  the  lips  of  Patience ; 

Haste  scatters  on  unthankful  sods 
The  immortal  gift  in  vain  libations. 

Coy  Hebe  flies  from  those  that  woo, 
And  shuns  the  hands  would  seize  upon  her ; 

Follow  thy  life,  and  she  will  sue 
To  pour  for  thee  the  cup  of  honor. 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND   LYRICS. 


©ag  {0  ©one. 


'"PHE  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 

Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 
As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist, 
And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me 

That  my  soul  cannot  resist  : 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 

Come,  read  to  me  some  poem, 
Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay, 

That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 
And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 
Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 


66 


THE   DAY   IS    DONE. 

Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 
Through  the  corridors  of  Time. 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music, 
Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 

Life's  endless  toil  and  endeavor; 
And  to-night  I  long  for  rest. 

Read  from  some  humbler  poet, 

Whose  songs  gashed  from  his  heart, 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start ; 

Who,  through  long  days  of  labor, 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 
Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 

Of  wonderful  melodies. 

Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 

The  restless  pulse  of  care, 
And  come  like  the  benediction 

That  follows  after  prayer. 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 

The  poem  of  thy  choice, 
And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 

The  beauty  of  thy  voice. 

67 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 
And  the  cares  that  infest  the  day 

Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away. 

H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 


68 


ICHABOD. 


CO  fallen  !  so  lost !  the  light  withdrawn 

Which  once  he  wore  ! 
The  glory  from  his  gray  hairs  gone 
Forevermore ! 

Revile  him  not,  —  the  Tempter  hath 

A  snare  for  all ; 
And  pitying  tears,  not  scorn  and  wrath, 

Befit  his  fall ! 

Oh,  dumb  be  passion's  stormy  rage, 

When  he  who  might 
Have  lighted  up  and  led  his  age, 

Falls  back  in  night. 

Scorn  !  would  the  angels  laugh,  to  mark 

A  bright  soul  driven, 
Fiend-goaded,  down  the  endless  dark, 

From  hope  and  heaven ! 

Let  not  the  land  once  proud  of  him 
Insult  him  now, 

69 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


Nor  brand  with  deeper  shame  his  dim, 
Dishonored  brow. 

But  let  its  humbled  sons,  instead, 

From  sea  to  lake, 
A  long  lament,  as  for  the  dead, 

In  sadness  make. 

Of  all  we  loved  and  honored,  naught 

Save  power  remains,  — 
A  fallen  angel's  pride  of  thought, 

Still  strong  in  chains. 

All  else  is  gone ;  from  those  great  eyes 

The  soul  has  fled : 
When  faith  is  lost,  when  honor  dies, 

The  man  is  dead  ! 

Then,  pay  the  reverence  of  old  days 

To  his  dead  fame ; 
Walk  backward,  with  averted  gaze, 

And  hide  the  shame ! 

J.  G.  WHITTIER. 


SIR   HUMPHREY   GILBERT. 


Jit  |E)ump#iree 


O  OUTHWARD  with  fleet  of  ice 

Sailed  the  corsair  Death; 
Wild  and  fast  blew  the  blast, 

And  the  east-wind  was  his  breath. 

His  lordly  ships  of  ice 

Glisten  in  the  sun  ; 
On  each  side,  like  pennons  wide, 

Flashing  crystal  streamlets  run. 

His  sails  of  white  sea-mist 

Dripped  with  silver  rain  ; 
But  where  he  passed  there  were  cast 

Leaden  shadows  o'er  the  main. 

Eastward  from  Campobello 
Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert  sailed  ; 

Three  days  or  more  seaward  he  bore, 
Then,  alas  !  the  land-wind  failed. 

Alas  !  the  land-wind  failed, 
And  ice-cold  grew  the  night  ; 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 

And  nevermore,  on  sea  or  shore, 
Should  Sir  Humphrey  see  the  light. 

He  sat  upon  the  deck, 

The  Book  was  in  his  hand ; 
"  Do  not  fear !     Heaven  is  as  near," 

He  said,  "  by  water  as  by  land ! " 

In  the  first  watch  of  the  night, 

Without  a  signal's  sound, 
Out  of  the  sea,  mysteriously, 

The  fleet  of  Death  rose  all  around. 

The  moon  and  the  evening  star 
Were  hanging  in  the  shrouds ; 

Every  mast,  as  it  passed, 

Seemed  to  rake  the  passing  clouds. 

They  grappled  with  their  prize, 
At  midnight  black  and  cold ! 

As  of  a  rock  was  the  shock ; 
Heavily  the  ground-swell  rolled. 

Southward  through  day  and  dark, 
They  drift  in  close  embrace, 

With  mist  and  rain,  o'er  the  open  main ; 
Yet  there  seems  no  change  of  place. 

72 


SIR   HUMPHREY   GILBERT. 

Southward,  forever  southward, 
They  drift  through  dark  and  day ; 

And  like  a  dream,  in  the  Gulf  Stream 
Sinking,  vanish  all  away. 

H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 


73 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


Concorb 


Sung  at  the  completion  of  the  Battle  Monument, 
April  19,  1836. 

T>  Y  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 
Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 
Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood, 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept  ; 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps  ; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward 


On  this  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream, 

We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone, 
That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem, 

When,  like  our  sires,  our  sons  are  gone. 

Spirit,  that  made  those  heroes  dare 
To  die,  and  leave  their  children  free, 

Bid  Time  and  Nature  gently  spare 
The  shaft  we  r«use  to  them  and  thee. 

R.  W.  EMERSOM. 


TO  AMERICA. 


P£o  (America, 

"117" HAT,  cringe  to  Europe !     Band  it  all  in  one, 
Stilt  its  decrepit  strength,  renew  its  age, 

Wipe  out  its  debts,  contract  a  loan  to  wage 
Its  venal  battles,  —  and,  by  yon  bright  sun, 
Our  God  is  false,  and  liberty  undone, 

If  slaves  have  power  to  win  your  heritage ! 

Look  on  your  country,  God's  appointed  stage, 
Where  man's  vast  mind  its  boundless  course  shall 

run: 
For  that  it  was  your  stormy  coast  He  spread  — 

A  fear  in  winter ;  girded  you  about 
With  granite  hills,  and  made  you  strong  and  dread. 

Let  him  who  fears  before  the  foemen  shout, 
Or  gives  an  inch  before  a  vein  has  bled, 

Turn  on  himself,  and  let  the  traitor  out ! 

G.  H.  BOKER. 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


A  Y,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down ! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky ; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle  shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar ;  — 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more. 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood. 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee ; 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea ! 

Oh,  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 
Should  sink  beneath  the  wave ! 

Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 
And  there  should  be  her  grave ; 

76 


OLD   IRONSIDES. 


Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning,  and  the  gale  ! 

O.   W.    HOLMESc 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 

£o  (Bngfewb. 
i. 

T   EAR  and  Cordelia  !  'twas  an  ancient  tale 

Before  thy  Shakespeare  gave  it  deathless  fame ; 

The  times  have  changed,  the  moral  is  the  same. 
So  like  an  outcast,  dowerless  and  pale, 
Thy  daughter  went ;  and  in  a  foreign  gale 

Spread  her  young  banner,  till  its  sway  became 

A  wonder  to  the  nations.     Days  of  shame 
Are  close  upon  thee ;  prophets  raise  their  wail. 
When  the  rude  Cossack  with  an  outstretched  hand 

Points  his  long  spear  across  the  narrow  sea,  — 

"  Lo  !  there  is  England  !  "  when  thy  destiny 
Storms  on  thy  straw-crowned  head,  and  thou  dost 

stand 
Weak,  helpless,  mad,  a  by-word  in  the  land,  — 

God  grant  thy  daughter  a  Cordelia  be ! 
[1852.] 

II. 
Stand,  thou  great  bulwark  of  man's  liberty ! 

Thou  rock  of  shelter,  rising  from  the  wave, 

Sole  refuge  to  the  overwearied  brave 
Who  planned,  arose,  and  battled  to  be  free, 
Fell,  undeterred,  then  sadly  turned  to  thee,  — 

78 


TO   ENGLAND. 

Saved  the  free  spirit  from  their  country's  grave, 

To  rise  again,  and  animate  the  slave, 
When  God  shall  ripen  all  things.     Britons,  ye 
Who  guard  the  sacred  outpost,  not  in  vain 

Hold  your  proud  peril !     Freemen  undefiled, 

Keep  watch  and  ward  !     Let  battlements  be  piled 
Around  your  cliffs ;  fleets  marshalled,  till  the  main 
Sink  under  them ;  and  if  your  courage  wane, 

Through  force  or  fraud,  look  westward  to  your 

child! 
[1853.]  G.  H.  BOKER. 


79 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


Wtrecft  of  t  (Je 


T  T  was  the  schooner  Hesperus, 
That  sailed  the  wintry  sea  ; 
And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little  daughter, 
To  bear  him  company. 

Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy-flax, 
Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day, 

And  her  bosom  white  as  the  hawthorn  buds, 
That  ope  in  the  month  of  May. 

The  skipper  he  stood  beside  the  helm, 

His  pipe  was  in  his  mouth, 
And  he  watched  how  the  veering  flaw  did  blow 

The  smoke  now  West,  now  South. 

Then  up  and  spake  an  old  Sail&r, 

Had  sailed  to  the  Spanish  Main, 
"  I  pray  thee,  put  into  yonder  port, 

For  I  fear  a  hurricane. 

"  Last  night,  the  moon  had  a  golden  ring, 
And  to-night  no  moon  we  see  1  " 

80 


THE   WRECK   OF   THE   HESPERUS. 

The  skipper,  he  blew  a  whiff  from  his  pipe, 
And  a  scornful  laugh  laughed  he. 

Colder  and  louder  blew  the  wind, 

A  gale  from  the  Northeast, 
The  snow  fell  hissing  in  the  brine, 

And  the  billows  frothed  like  yeast. 

Down  came  the  storm,  and  smote  amain 

The  vessel  in  its  strength ; 
She  shuddered  and  paused,  like  a  frightened  steed, 

Then  leaped  her  cable's  length. 

"  Come  hither !  come  hither !  my  little  daughter, 

And  do  not  tremble  so ; 
For  I  can  weather  the  roughest  gale 

That  ever  wind  did  blow." 

He  wrapped  her  warm  in  his  seaman's  coat 

Against  the  stinging  blast; 
He  cut  a  rope  from  a  broken  spar, 

And  bound  her  to  the  mast. 

"  O  father !   I  hear  the  church-bells  ring, 

Oh,  say,  what  may  it  be  ? " 
"  'Tis  a  fog-bell  on  a  rock-bound  coast ! "  — 

And  he  steered  for  the  open  sea. 

81 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 

"  O  father !  I  hear  the  sound  of  guns, 

Oh,  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
"  Some  ship  in  distress,  that  cannot  live 

In  such  an  angry  sea !  " 

"  O  father !  I  see  a  gleaming  light, 

"  Oh,  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
But  the  father  answered  never  a  word, 

A  frozen  corpse  was  he. 

Lashed  to  the  helm,  all  stiff  and  stark, 

With  his  face  turned  to  the  skies, 
The  lantern  gleamed  through  the  gleaming  snow 

On  his  fixed  and  glassy  eyes. 

Then  the  maiden  clasped  her  hands  and  pra>ed 

That  saved  she  might  be ; 
And  she  thought  of  Christ,  who  stilled  the  wave, 

On  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 

And  fast  through  the  midnight  dark  and  drenr, 
Through  the  whistling  sleet  and  snow, 

Like  a  sheeted  ghost,  the  vessel  swept 
Tow'rds  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe. 

And  ever  the  fitful  gusts  between 
A  sound  came  from  the  land ; 

82 


THE    WRECK   OF   THE    HESPERUS. 


It  was  the  sound  of  the  trampling  surf 
On  the  rocks  and  the  hard  sea-sand. 

The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her  bows, 

She  drifted  a  dreary  wreck, 
And  a  whooping  billow  swept  the  crew 

Like  icicles  from  her  deck. 

She  struck  where  the  white  and  fleecy  waves 

Looked  soft  as  carded  wool, 
But  the  cruel  rocks,  they  gored  her  side 

Like  the  horns  of  an  angry  bull. 

Her  rattling  shrouds,  all  sheathed  in  ice, 
With  the  masts  went  by  the  board ; 

Like  a  vessel  of  glass,  she  stove  and  sank, 
Ho  !  ho  !  the  breakers  roared ! 

At  daybreak,  on  the  bleak  sea-beach, 

A  fisherman  stood  aghast, 
To  see  the  form  of  a  maiden  fair, 

Lashed  close  to  a  drifting  mast. 

The  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast, 

The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes ; 
And  he  saw  her  hair,  like  the  brown  sea-weed, 

On  the  billows  fall  and  rise. 

83 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 

Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus, 

In  the  midnight  and  the  snow ! 
Christ  save  us  all  from  a  death  like  this, 

On  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe  ! 

H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 


BEDOUIN   SONG. 


T^ROM  the  Desert  I  come  to  thee 

On  a  stallion  shod  with  fire , 
And  the  winds  are  left  behind 

In  the  speed  of  my  desire. 
Under  thy  window  I  stand, 

And  the  midnight  hears  my  cry : 
I  love  thee,  I  love  but  thee, 
With  a  love  that  shall  not  die 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold  ! 

Look  from  thy  window  and  see 

My  passion  and  my  pain ; 
I  lie  on  the  sands  below, 

And  I  faint  in  thy  disdain. 
Let  the  night-winds  touch  thy  brow 

With  the  heat  of  my  burning  sigh, 
And  melt  thee  to  hear  the  vow 

Of  a  love  that  shall  not  die 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 

Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold ! 

My  steps  are  nightly  driven, 
By  the  fever  in  my  breast, 
To  hear  from  thy  lattice  breathed 

The  word  that  shall  give  me  rest. 
Open  the  door  of  thy  heart, 

And  open  thy  chamber  door, 
And  my  kisses  shall  teach  thy  lips 
The  love  that  shall  fade  no  more 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold ! 

B.  TAYLOR. 


86 


SKIPPER   IRESON'S    RIDE. 


JJfttpper  3reson'0  (gibe* 

/^\F  all  the  rides  since  the  birth  of  time, 
Told  in  story  or  sung  in  rhyme,  — 

On  Apuleius's  Golden  Ass, 

Or  one-eyed  Calendar's  horse  of  brass, 

Witch  astride  of  a  human  back, 

Islam's  prophet  on  Al-Borak,  — 

The  strangest  ride  that  ever  was  sped 

Was  Ireson's,  out  from  Marblehead ! 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 

Body  of  turkey,  head  of  owl, 
Wings  a-droop  like  a  rained-on  fowl, 
Feathered  and  ruffled  in  every  part, 
Skipper  Ireson  stood  in  the  cart. 
Scores  of  women,  old  and  young, 
Strong  of  muscle,  and  glib  of  tongue, 
Pushed  and  pulled  up  the  rocky  lane, 
Shouting  and  singing  the  shrill  refrain : 
"  Here's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead !  " 

8? 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


Wrinkled  scolds  with  hands  on  hips, 

Girls  in  bloom  of  cheek  and  lips, 

Wild-eyed,  free-limbed,  such  as  chase 

Bacchus  round  some  antique  vase, 

Brief  of  skirt,  with  ankles  bare, 

Loose  of  kerchief  and  loose  of  hair, 

With  conch-shells  blowing  and  fish-horns'  twang, 

Over  and  over  the  Maenads  sang: 

"  Here's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead ! " 

Small  pity  for  him  !  —  He  sailed  away 
From  a  leaking  ship,  in  Chaleur  Bay,  — 
Sailed  away  from  a  sinking  wreck, 
With  his  own  town's-people  on  her  deck ! 
"  Lay  by !  lay  by !  "  they  called  to  him. 
Back  he  answered,  "  Sink  or  swim ! 
Brag  of  your  catch  of  fish  again !  " 
And  off  he  sailed  through  the  fog  and  rain ! 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 

Fathoms  deep  in  dark  Chaleur 
That  wreck  shall  lie  forevermore. 


SKIPPER   IRESON'S    RIDE. 


Mother  and  sister,  wife  and  maid, 
Looked  from  the  rocks  of  Marblehead 
Over  the  moaning  and  rainy  sea,  — 
Looked  for  the  coming  that  might  not  be ! 
What  did  the  winds  and  the  sea-birds  say 
Of  the  cruel  captain  who  sailed  away  ?  — 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

Through  the  street,  on  either  side, 
Up  flew  windows,  doors  swung  wide ; 
Sharp-tongued  spinsters,  old  wives  gray, 
Treble  lent  the  fish-horn's  bray. 
Sea-worn  grandsires,  cripple-bound, 
Hulks  of  old  sailors  run  aground, 
Shook  head,  and  fist,  and  hat,  and  cane, 
And  cracked  with  curses  the  hoarse  refrain : 
"  Here's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  !  " 

Sweetly  along  the  Salem  road 

Bloom  of  orchard  and  lilac  showed. 

Little  the  wicked  skipper  knew 

Of  the  fields  so  green  and  the  sky  so  blue, 

89 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 

Riding  there  in  his  sorry  trim, 
Like  an  Indian  idol  glum  and  grim, 
Scarcely  he  seemed  the  sound  to  hear 
Of  voices  shouting,  far  and  near : 

"  Here's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead ! " 

"  Hear  me,  neighbors  !  "  at  last  he  cried,  — 
"  What  to  me  is  this  noisy  ride  ? 
What  is  the  shame  that  clothes  the  skin 
To  the  nameless  horror  that  lives  within  ? 
Waking  or  sleeping,  I  see  a  wreck, 
And  hear  a  cry  from  a  reeling  deck ! 
Hate  me  and  curse  me,  —  I  only  dread 
The  hand  of  God  and  the  face  of  the  dead ! " 
Said  old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 

Then  the  wife  of  the  skipper  lost  at  sea 
Said,  "  God  has  touched  him  !  Why  should 
Said  an  old  wife,  mourning  her  only  son : 
"  Cut  the  rogue's  tether  and  let  him  run !  " 
So  with  soft  relentings  and  rude  excuse, 
Half  scorn,  half  pity,  they  cut  him  loose, 

90 


SKIPPER  IRESON'S    RIDE. 

And  gave  him  a  cloak  to  hide  him  in, 
And  left  him  alone  with  his  shame  and  sin. 
Poor  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 

J.  G.  WHITTIER. 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


T  TNDER  a  spreading  chestnut-tree 

The  village  smithy  stands ; 
The  smith,  a  mighty  man  is  he, 

With  large  and  sinewy  hands ; 
And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 

Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 

His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long, 

His  face  is  like  the  tan ; 
His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat, 

He  earns  whate'er  he  can, 
And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night, 
You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow ; 

You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge, 
With  measured  beat  and  slow, 

Like  a  sexton  ringing  the  village  bell, 
When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

And  children  coming  home  from  school 
Look  in  at  the  open  door ; 


92 


THE   VILLAGE   BLACKSMITH. 


They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar, 
And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 

Like  chaff  from  a  threshing-floor. 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church, 

And  sits  among  his  boys ; 
He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach, 

He  hears  his  daughter's  voice, 
Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 

It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother's  voice, 

Singing  in  Paradise ! 
He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more, 

How  in  the  grave  she  lies ; 
And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes 

A  tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

Toiling,  —  rejoicing,  —  sorrowing, 

Onward  through  life  he  goes ; 
Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 

Each  evening  sees  it  close ; 
Something  attempted,  something  done, 
Has  earned  a  night's  repose. 

H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 
93 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS, 


T  F  with  light  head  erect  I  sing, 

Though  all  the  Muses  lend  their  force, 
From  my  poor  love  of  anything, 

The  verse  is  weak  and  shallow  as  its  source. 

But  if  with  bended  neck  I  grope 

Listening  behind  me  for  my  wit, 
With  faith  superior  to  hope, 

More  anxious  to  keep  back  than  forward  it,  — 

Making  my  soul  accomplice  there 

Unto  the  flame  my  heart  hath  lit, 
Then  will  the  verse  for  ever  wear,  — 

Time  cannot  bend  the  line  which  God  has  writ 
H.  D.  THOREAU. 


THE   LAST   LEAF. 


T  SAW  him  once  before, 
As  he  passed  by  the  doort 

And  again 

The  pavement  stones  resound, 
As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground 

With  his  cane. 

They  say  that  in  his  prime, 
Ere  the  pruning-knife  of  Time 

Cut  him  down, 
Not  a  better  man  was  found 
By  the  crier  on  his  round 

Through  the  town. 

But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 

Sad  and  wan, 

And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

"  They  are  gone." 

95 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


The  mossy  marbles  rest 

On  the  lips  that  he  has  pressed 

In  their  bloom, 

And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb. 

My  grandmamma  has  said  — 
Poor  old  lady,  she  is  dead 

Long  ago  — 

That  he  had  a  Roman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

In  the  snow. 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 

Like  a  staff, 

And  a  crook  is  in  his  back, 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

In  his  laugh. 

I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here ; 

But  the  old  three-cornered  hat, 
And  the  breeches,  and  all  that, 

Are  so  queer ! 


THE   LAST   LEAF. 

And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  spring, 

Let  them  smile,  as  I  do  now, 
At  the  old,  forsaken  bough 

Where  I  cling. 

O.  W.  HOLMES. 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


£0e  Catof  of  ©eaf  0, 

From  "  When  Lilacs  Last  in  the  Dooryard  Bloom'd." 

f^OME  lovely  and  soothing  death, 

Undulate   round   the    world,    serenely   arrmng, 

arriving, 

In  the  day,  in  the  night,  to  all,  to  each, 
Sooner  or  later  delicate  death. 

Prais'd  be  the  fathomless  universe, 

For  life   and   joy,   and  for  objects  and   knowledge 

curious, 

And  for  love,  sweet  love  —  but  praise  !  praise  !  praise  ! 
For  the  sure-enwinding  arms  of  cool-enfolding  death. 

Dark  mother  always  gliding  near  with  soft  feet, 
Have    none    chanted    for    thee   a   chant    of   fullest 

welcome  ? 

Then  I  chant  it  for  thee,  I  glorify  thee  above  all, 
I  bring  thee  a  song  that  when  thou  must  indeed 

come,  come  unfalteringly. 


THE  CAROL  OF  DEATH. 


Approach  strong  deliveress, 

When  it  is  so,  when  thou  hast  taken  them  I  joyously 

sing  the  dead, 

Lost  in  the  loving  floating  ocean  of  thee, 
Laved  in  the  flood  of  thy  bliss  O  death. 

From  me  to  thee  glad  serenades, 

Dances  for  thee  I  propose  saluting  thee,  adornments 
and  feastings  for  thee, 

And  the  sights  of  the  open  landscape  and  the  high- 
spread  sky  are  fitting, 

And  life  and  the  fields,  and  the  huge  and  thoughtful 
night. 

The  night  in  silence  under  many  a  star, 

The  ocean  shore  and   the  husky  whispering  wave 

whose  voice  I  know, 
And  the  soul  turning  to  thee  O  vast  and  well-veiPd 

death, 
And  the  body  gratefully  nestling  close  to  thee. 

Over  the  tree-tops  I  float  thee  a  song, 

Over  the  rising  and  sinking  waves,  over  the  myriad 

fields  and  the  prairies  wide, 
Over  the   dense-pack'd  cities   all   and   the   teeming 

wharves  and  ways, 

I  float  this  carol  with  joy,  with  joy  to  thee  O  death. 

W.  WHITMAN, 
99 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


(gegiment 

Port  Hudson,  May  27,  1863. 

TP\ARK  as  the  clouds  of  even, 

Ranked  in  the  western  heaven, 
Waiting  the  breath  that  lifts 
All  the  dread  mass,  and  drifts 
Tempest  and  falling  brand 
Over  a  ruined  land ;  — 
So  still  and  orderly, 
Arm  to  arm,  knee  to  knee, 
Waiting  the  great  event, 
Stands  the  black  regiment. 

Down  the  long,  dusky  line 
Teeth  gleam,  and  eyeballs  shine ; 
And  the  bright  bayonet, 
Bristling  and  firmly  set, 
Flashed  with  a  purpose  grand, 
Long  ere  the  sharp  command 
Of  the  fierce  rolling  drum 
Told  them  their  time  had  come, 
Told  them  what  work  was  sent 
For  the  black  regiment. 

100 


THE    BLACK   REGIMEN.T. 

"  Now,"  the  flag-sergeant  cried, 
"  Though  death  and  hell  betide, 
Let  the  whole  nation  see 
If  we  are  fit  to  be 
Free  in  this  land ;  or  bound 
Down,  like  the  whining  hound,  — 
Bound  with  red  stripes  of  pain 
In  our  old  chains  again  ! " 
Oh,  what  a  shout  there  went 
From  the  black  regiment ! 

"  Charge !  "     Trump  and  drum  awoke; 
Onward  the  bondmen  broke ; 
Bayonet  and  sabre-stroke 
Vainly  opposed  their  rush. 
Through  the  wild  battle's  crush, 
With  but  one  thought  aflush, 
Driving  their  lords  like  chaff, 
In  the  guns'  mouths  they  laugh ; 
Or  at  the  slippery  brands 
Leaping  with  open  hands, 
Down  they  tear  man  and  horse, 
Down  in  their  awful  course ; 
Trampling  with  bloody  heel 
Over  the  crashing  steel, 
All  their  eyes  forward  bent, 
Rushed  the  black  regiment. 

101 


SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


"  Freedom  !  "  their  battle-cry,  — 
"  Freedom  !  or  leave  to  die  !  " 
Ah  !  and  they  meant  the  word, 
Not  as  with  us  'tis  heard, 
Not  a  mere  party  shout; 
They  gave  their  spirits  out, 
Trusted  the  end  to  God, 
And  on  the  gory  sod 
Rolled  in  triumphant  blood. 
Glad  to  strike  one  free  blow, 
Whether  for  weal  or  woe  ; 
Glad  to  breathe  one  free  breath, 
Though  on  the  lips  of  death  ; 
Praying  —  alas  !  in  vain  !  — 
That  they  might  fall  again, 
So  they  could  once  more  see 
That  burst  to  liberty  ! 
This  was  what  "  freedom  "  lent 
To  the  black  regiment. 


Hundreds  on  hundreds  fell ; 
But  they  are  resting  well ; 
Scourges  and  shackles  strong 
Never  shall  do  them  wrong. 
Oh,  to  the  living  few, 
Soldiers,  be  just  and  true ! 

102 


THE   BLACK   REGIMENT. 

Hail  them  as  comrades  tried ; 
Fight  with  them  side  by  side ; 
Never,  in  field  or  tent, 
Scorn  the  black  regiment. 

G.  H.  BOKER. 


103 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


n^HE  despot  treads  thy  sacred  sands, 

Thy  pines  give  shelter  to  his  bands, 
Thy  sons  stand  by  with  idle  hands, 

Carolina ! 

He  breathes  at  ease  thy  airs  of  balm, 
He  scorns  the  lances  of  thy  palm ; 
Oh !  who  shall  break  thy  craven  calin, 

Carolina ! 

Thy  ancient  fame  is  growing  dim, 
A  spot  is  on  thy  garment's  rim ; 
Give  to  the  winds  thy  battle-hymn, 

Carolina ! 

Call  on  thy  children  of  the  hill, 
Wake  swamp  and  river,  coast  and  rill, 
Rouse  all  thy  strength  and  all  thy  skill, 

Carolina ! 

Cite  wealth  and  science,  trade  and  art, 
Touch  with  thy  fire  the  cautious  mart, 
And  pour  thee  through  the  people's  heart, 

Carolina ! 

104 


CAROLINA. 


Till  even  the  coward  spurns  his  fears, 
And  all  thy  fields,  and  fens,  and  meres 
Shall  bristle  like  thy  palm  with  spears, 
Carolina ! 

I  hear  a  murmur  as  of  waves 

That  grope  their  way  through  sunless  caves, 

Like  bodies  struggling  in  their  graves, 

Carolina ! 

And  now  it  deepens  ;  slow  and  grand 
It  swells,  as,  rolling  to  the  land, 
An  ocean  broke  upon  thy  strand, 

Carolina ! 

Shout !     Let  it  reach  the  startled  Huns ! 
And  roar  with  all  thy  festal  guns ! 
It  is  the  answer  of  thy  sons, 

Carolina  1 

H.   TlMROD. 


105 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


©trfle  for  a  Jioftteir. 

/^LOSE  his  eyes ;  his  work  is  done  ! 
What  to  him  is  friend  or  foeman, 
Rise  of  moon,  or  set  of  sun, 

Hand  of  man,  or  kiss  of  woman  ? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
What  cares  he  ?     He  cannot  know ; 
Lay  him  low ! 

As  man  may,  he  fought  his  fight, 

Proved  his  truth  by  his  endeavor; 
Let  him  sleep  in  solemn  night, 
Sleep  forever  and  forever. 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
What  cares  he  ?     He  cannot  know ; 
Lay  him  low ! 

Fold  him  in  his  country's  stars, 
Roll  the  drum  and  fire  the  volley ! 

What  to  him  are  all  our  wars, 
What  but  death  bemocking  folly  ? 

106 


DIRGE   FOR  A   SOLDIER. 

Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
What  cares  he  ?     He  cannot  know; 
Lay  him  low ! 

Leave  him  to  God's  watching  eye ; 

Trust  him  to  the  hand  that  made  him. 
Mortal  love  weeps  idly  by ; 

God  alone  has  power  to  aid  him. 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
What  cares  he  ?     He  cannot  know ! 
Lay  him  low ! 

G.    H.   BOKER., 


10? 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


n  of 


TV/I"  INE  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of 

the  Lord  : 
He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where  the  grapes  of 

wrath  are  stored; 

He  hath  loosed  the  fatal  lightning  of   His   terrible 
swift  sword  : 

His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I   have   seen  Him  in  the  watch-fires  of   a  hundred 

circling  camps  ; 
They  have  builded  Him  an  altar  in  the  evening  dews 

and  damps  ; 
I  can  read  His  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim  and 

flaring  lamps  : 

His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel,  writ  in  burnished  rows  of 

steel  : 
"As  ye  deal  with  My  contemners,  so  with  you  My 

grace  shall  deal  ; 
Let  the  Hero,  born   of  woman,  crush   the   serpent 

with  His  heel  ! 

Since  God  is  marching  on." 

108 


BATTLE- HYMN   OF   THE    REPUBLIC. 

He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never 
call  retreat ; 

He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  His  judg- 
ment seat ; 

Oh !  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  Him !  be  jubilant, 
my  feet ! 

Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born,  across 

the  sea, 
With  a  glory  in  His  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and 

me: 

As  He  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make 
men  free, 

While  God  is  marching  on. 

J.  W.  HOWE. 


109 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


TpARRAGUT,  Farragut, 
r    Old  Heart  of  Oak, 
Daring  Dave  Farragut, 

Thunderbolt  stroke, 
Watches  the  hoary  mist 

Lift  from  the  bay, 
Till  his  flag,  glory-kissed, 

Greets  the  young  day. 

Far,  by  gray  Morgan's  walls, 

Looms  the  black  fleet. 
Hark,  deck  to  rampart  calls 

With  the  drums'  beat ! 
Buoy  your  chains  overboard, 

While  the  steam  hums ; 
Men !  to  the  battlement, 

Farragut  comes. 

See,  as  the  hurricane 

Hurtles  in  wrath 
Squadrons  of  clouds  amain 

Back  from  its  path ! 


FARRAGUT. 


Back  to  the  parapet, 

To  the  guns'  lips, 
Thunderbolt  Farragut 

Hurls  the  black  ships. 

Now  through  the  battle's  roar 

Clear  the  boy  sings, 
"  By  the  mark  fathoms  four," 

While  his  lead  swings. 
Steady  the  wheelmen  five 

"  Nor'  by  east  keep  her," 
"  Steady,"  but  two  alive : 

How  the  shells  sweep  her ! 

Lashed  to  the  mast  that  sways 

Over  red  decks, 
Over  the  flame  that  plays 

Round  the  torn  wrecks, 
Over  the  dying  lips 

Framed  for  a  cheer, 
Farragut  leads  his  ships, 

Guides  the  line  clear. 

On  by  heights  cannon-browed, 
While  the  spars  quiver ; 

Onward  still  flames  the  cloud 
Where  the  hulks  shiver. 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


See,  yon  fort's  star  is  set, 

Storm  and  fire  past. 
Cheer  him,  lads,  —  Farragut, 

Lashed  to  the  mast ! 

Oh  !  while  Atlantic's  breast 

Bears  a  white  sail, 
While  the  Gulf's  towering  crest 

Tops  a  green  vale ; 
Men  thy  bold  deeds  shall  tell, 

Old  Heart  of  Oak, 
Daring  Dave  Farragut, 

Thunderbolt  stroke ! 

W.  T.  MEREDITH. 


Ill 


MY   MARYLAND. 


n^HE  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 
1         Maryland ! 
His  torch  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland  ! 

Avenge  the  patriotic  gore 
That  flecked  the  streets  of  Baltimore, 
And  be  the  battle-queen  of  yore, 
Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Hark  to  an  exiled  son's  appeal, 

Maryland  ! 
My  Mother  State,  to  thee  I  kneel, 

Maryland  ! 

For  life  and  death,  for  woe  and  weal, 
Thy  peerless  chivalry  reveal, 
And  gird  thy  beauteous  limbs  with  steel, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Thou  wilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 
Maryland ! 

"3 


AMERICAN    SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


Thy  beaming  sword  shall  never  rust, 

Maryland ! 

Remember  Carroll's  sacred  trust, 
Remember  Howard's  warlike  thrust, 
And  all  thy  slumberers  with  the  just, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Come !  'tis  the  red  dawn  of  the  day, 

Maryland ! 
Come  with  thy  panoplied  array, 

Maryland ! 

With  Ringgold's  spirit  for  the  fray, 
With  Watson's  blood  at  Monterey, 
With  fearless  Lowe  and  dashing  May, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Dear  Mother,  burst  the  tyrant's  chain, 

Maryland ! 
Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 

Maryland ! 

She  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain,  — 
"  Sic  semper/"  'tis  the  proud  refrain 
That  baffles  minions  back  amain, 

Maryland ! 
Arise  in  majesty  again, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

114 


MY   MARYLAND. 


Come !  for  thy  shield  is  bright  and  strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come !  for  thy  dalliance  does  thee  wrong, 

Maryland ! 

Come  to  thine  own  heroic  throng 
Stalking  with  Liberty  along, 
And  chant  thy  dauntless  slogan-song, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 

Maryland ! 
For  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland ! 

But  lo !  there  surges  forth  a  shriek, 
From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek, 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  Vandal  toll, 

Maryland ! 
Thou  wilt  not  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland ! 

Better  the  fire  upon  thee  roll, 
Better  the  shot,  the  blade,  the  bowl, 
Than  crucifixion  of  the  soul, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder-hum, 

Maryland ! 
The  old  Line's  bugle,  fife,  and  drum, 

Maryland ! 

She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb ; 
Huzza  !  she  spurns  the  Northern  scum ! 
She  breathes  !    She  burns  !    She'll  come  ! 
She'll  come ! 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

J.  R.  RANDALL. 


116 


TO  THE  MAN -OF -WAR -BIRD. 


HTHOU  who  hast  slept  all  night  upon  the  storm, 

Waking  renew'd  on  thy  prodigious  pinions, 
(Burst  the  wild  storm  ?  above  it  thou  ascended'st, 
And  rested  on  the  sky,  thy  slave  that  cradled  thee,) 
Now  a  blue  point,  far,  far  in  heaven  floating, 
As  to  the  light  emerging  here  on  deck  I  watch  thee, 
(Myself  a  speck,  a  point  on  the  world's  floating  vast.) 

Far,  far  at  sea, 

After  the  night's  fierce  drifts  have  strewn  the  shore 

with  wrecks, 

With  re-appearing  day  as  now  so  happy  and  serene, 
The  rosy  and  elastic  dawn,  the  flashing  sun, 
The  limpid  spread  of  air  cerulean, 
Thou  also  re-appearest. 

Thou  born  to  match  the  gale,  (thou  art  all  wings,) 
To  cope  with  heaven  and  earth  and  sea  and  hurri- 
cane, 

Thou  ship  of  air  that  never  furl'st  thy  sails, 
Days,    even    weeks    untired   and   onward,    through 
spaces,  realms  gyrating, 

117 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


At  dusk  that  look's  t  on  Senegal,  at  morn  America, 
That  sport'st  amid  the  lightning-flash  and  thunder- 

cloud, 

In  them,  in  thy  experiences,  had'st  thou  my  soul, 
What  joys !  what  joys  were  thine  ! 

W.  WHITMAN, 


ft* 


SONG   OF  THE   CAMP. 


of  f0e  Camp. 


"  f~*  IVE  us  a  song  !  "  the  soldiers  cried, 

The  outer  trenches  guarding, 
When  the  heated  guns  of  the  camps  allied 
Grew  weary  of  bombarding. 

The  dark  Redan,  in  silent  scoff, 
Lay  grim  and  threatening  under  ; 

And  the  tawny  mound  of  the  Malakoff 
No  longer  belch'd  its  thunder. 

There  was  a  pause.     A  guardsman  said: 
"  We  storm  the  forts  to-morrow  ; 

Sing  while  we  may,  another  day 
Will  bring  enough  of  sorrow." 

They  lay  along  the  battery's  side, 

Below  the  smoking  cannon  : 
Brave  hearts  from  Severn  and  from  Clyde, 

And  from  the  banks  of  Shannon. 

They  sang  of  love,  and  not  of  fame  ; 
Forgot  was  Britain's  glory: 

119 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND    LYRICS. 


Each  heart  recall'd  a  different  name, 
But  all  sang  "  Annie  Laurie." 

Voice  after  voice  caught  up  the  song, 

Until  its  tender  passion 
Rose  like  an  anthem,  rich  and  strong, — 

Their  battle-eve  confession. 

Dear  girl,  her  name  he  dared  not  speak, 
But  as  the  song  grew  louder, 

Something  upon  the  soldier's  cheek 
Washed  off  the  stains  of  powder. 

Beyond  the  darkening  ocean  burn'd 

The  bloody  sunset's  embers, 
While  the  Crimean  valleys  learn'd 

How  English  love  remembers. 

And  once  again  a  fire  of  hell 
Rain'd  on  the  Russian  quarters, 

With  scream  of  shot,  and  burst  of  shell, 
And  bellowing  of  the  mortars  ! 

And  Irish  Nora's  eyes  are  dim 
For  a  singer  dumb  and  gory ; 

And  English  Mary  mourns  for  him 
Who  sang  of  "  Annie  Laurie." 

120 


SONG    OF   THE   CAMP. 

Sleep,  soldiers !  still  in  honor'd  rest 

Your  truth  and  valor  wearing : 
The  bravest  are  the  tenderest,  — 

The  loving  are  the  daring. 

B.  TAYLOR. 


S2I 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


3n 


T  LAY  me  down  to  sleep, 
With  little  thought  or  care 

Whether  my  waking  find 
Me  here  or  there. 

A  bowing,  burdened  head, 
That  only  asks  to  rest, 
Unquestioning,  upon 
A  loving  breast. 

My  good  right  hand  forgets 
Its  cunning  now. 
To  march  the  weary  march 
I  know  not  how. 

I  am  not  eager,  bold, 
Nor  strong  —  all  that  is  past  ; 
I  am  ready  not  to  do 
At  last,  at  last. 

My  half  day's  work  is  done, 
And  this  is  all  my  part  ; 
I  give  a  patient  God 
My  patient  heart, 

122 


IN   THE   HOSPITAL. 

And  grasp  His  banner  still, 
Though  all  its  blue  be  dim ; 
These  stripes,  no  less  than  stars, 
Lead  after  Him. 

M.  W.  HOWLAND. 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


OXofefe. 


T  T  ER  hands  are  cold  ;  her  face  is  white  ; 
No  more  her  pulses  come  and  go  ; 

Her  eyes  are  shut  to  life  and  light  ;  — 
Fold  the  white  vesture,  snow  on  snow, 
And  lay  her  where  the  violets  blow. 

But  not  beneath  a  graven  stone, 
To  plead  for  tears  with  alien  eyes  ; 

A  slender  cross  of  wood  alone 
Shall  say,  that  here  a  maiden  lies 
In  peace  beneath  the  peaceful  skies. 

And  gray  old  trees  of  hugest  limb 

Shall  wheel  their  circling  shadows  round 

To  make  the  scorching  sunlight  dim 

That  drinks  the  greenness  from  the  ground, 
And  drop  their  dead  leaves  on  her  mound. 

When  o'er  their  boughs  the  squirrels  run, 
And  through  their  leaves  the  robins  call, 

And,  ripening  in  the  autumn  sun, 
The  acorns  and  the  chestnuts  fall, 
Doubt  not  that  she  will  heed  them  all. 

124 


UNDER   THE   VIOLETS. 


For  her  the  morning  choir  shall  sing 
Its  matins  from  the  branches  high, 

And  every  minstrel  voice  of  Spring, 
That  trills  beneath  the  April  sky, 
Shall  greet  her  with  its  earliest  cry. 

When,  turning  round  their  dial-track, 
Eastward  the  lengthening  shadows  pass, 

Her  little  mourners,  clad  in  black, 

The  crickets,  sliding  through  the  grass, 
Shall  pipe  for  her  an  evening  mass. 

At  last  the  rootlets  of  the  trees 

Shall  find  the  prison  where  she  lies, 

And  bear  the  buried  dust  they  seize 
In  leaves  and  blossoms  to  the  skies. 
So  may  the  soul  that  warmed  it  rise  ! 

If  any,  born  of  kindlier  blood, 

Should  ask,  What  maiden  lies  below  ? 

Say  only  this :  A  tender  bud, 

That  tried  to  blossom  in  the  snow, 
Lies  withered  where  the  violets  blow. 

O.  W.  HOLMES. 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


•p\AUGHTERS  of  Time,  the  hypocritic  Days, 

Muffled  and  dumb  like  barefoot  dervishes, 
And  marching  single  in  an  endless  file, 
Bring  diadems  and  fagots  in  their  hands. 
To  each  they  offer  gifts  after  his  will, 
Bread,  kingdoms,  stars,  and  sky  that  holds  them  all. 
I,  in  my  pleached  garden,  watched  the  pomp, 
Forgot  my  morning  wishes,  hastily 
Took  a  few  herbs  and  apples,  and  the  Day 
Turned  and  departed  silent.     I,  too  late, 
Under  her  solemn  fillet  saw  the  scorn. 

R.  W.  EMERSON. 


126 


THE   DYING   LOVER. 


nPHE  grass  that  is  under  me  now 
Will  soon  be  over  me,  Sweet; 
When  you  walk  this  way  again 
I  shall  not  hear  your  feet. 

You  may  walk  this  way  again, 
And  shed  your  tears  like  dew ; 

They  will  be  no  more  to  me  then 
Than  mine  are  now  to  you ! 

R.  H.  STODDARD. 


*From  "The  Poems  of  R.  H.  Stoddard,"  copyright,  x88o«   by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


127 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


"117" HEN  I  was  a  beggarly  boy, 

And  lived  in  a  cellar  damp, 
I  had  not  a  friend  nor  a  toy, 

But  I  had  Aladdin's  lamp ; 
When  I  could  not  sleep  for  cold, 

I  had  fire  enough  in  my  brain, 
And  builded,  with  roofs  of  gold, 

My  beautiful  castles  in  Spain  ! 

Since  then  I  have  toiled  day  and  night, 

I  have  money  and  power  good  store, 
But  I'd  give  all  my  lamps  of  silver  bright, 

For  the  one  that  is  mine  no  more ; 
Take,  Fortune,  whatever  you  choose,  — 

You  gave,  and  may  snatch  again ; 
I  have  nothing  'twould  pain  me  to  lose, 

For  I  own  no  more  castles  in  Spain ! 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 


128 


THE   FLIGHT   OF  YOUTH. 


of 


are  gains  for  all  our  losses, 
There  are  balms  for  all  our  pain  ; 
But  when  youth,  the  dream,  departs, 
It  takes  something  from  our  hearts, 
And  it  never  comes  again. 

We  are  stronger,  and  are  better, 

Under  manhood's  sterner  reign  ; 
Still,  we  feel  that  something  sweet 
Followed  youth,  with  flying  feet, 
And  will  never  come  again. 

Something  beautiful  is  vanished, 

And  we  sigh  for  it  in  vain  ; 
We  behold  it  everywhere, 
On  the  earth,  and  in  the  air, 

But  it  never  comes  again. 

R.  H.  STODDARD. 


'From  "The  Poems  of  R.   H.   Stoddard,"  copyright,   1880,  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


129 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


*T*HE  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth  hill, 

Their  song  was  soft  and  low ; 
The  blossoms  in  the  sweet  May  wind 
Were  falling  like  the  snow. 

The  blossoms  drifted  at  our  feet, 
The  orchard  birds  sang  clear; 

The  sweetest  and  the  saddest  day 
It  seemed  of  all  the  year. 

For,  more  to  me  than  birds  or  flowers, 

My  playmate  left  her  home, 
And  took  with  her  the  laughing  spring, 

The  music  and  the  bloom. 

She  kissed  the  lips  of  kith  and  kin, 

She  laid  her  hand  in  mine : 
What  more  could  ask  the  bashful  boy 

Who  fed  her  father's  kine  ? 

She  left  us  in  the  bloom  of  May : 

The  constant  years  told  o'er 
Their  seasons  with  as  sweet  May  morns, 

But  she  came  back  no  more. 


THE   PLAYMATE. 

I  walk,  with  noiseless  feet,  the  round 

Of  uneventful  years ; 
Still  o'er  and  o'er  I  sow  the  spring 

And  reap  the  autumn  ears. 

She  lives  where  all  the  golden  year 

Her  summer  roses  blow ; 
The  dusky  children  of  the  sun 

Before  her  come  and  go. 

There  haply  with  her  jewelled  hands 
She  smooths  her  silken  gown,  — 

No  more  the  homespun  lap  wherein 
I  shook  the  walnuts  down. 

The  wild  grapes  wait  us  by  the  brook, 

The  brown  nuts  on  the  hill, 
And  still  the  May-day  flowers  make  sweet 

The  woods  of  Follymill. 

The  lilies  blossom  in  the  pond, 

The  bird  builds  in  the  tree, 
The  dark  pines  sing  on  Ramoth  hill 

The  slow  song  of  the  sea. 

I  wonder  if  she  thinks  of  them, 
And  how  the  old  time  seems, — 

131 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 

If  ever  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 
Are  sounding  in  her  dreams. 

I  see  her  face,  I  hear  her  voice : 

Does  she  remember  mine  ? 
And  what  to  her  is  now  the  boy 

Who  fed  her  father's  kine  ? 

What  cares  she  that  the  orioles  build 

For  other  eyes  than  ours,  — 
That  other  hands  with  nuts  are  filled, 

And  other  laps  with  flowers  ? 

O  playmate  in  the  golden  time ! 

Our  mossy  seat  is  green, 
Its  fringing  violets  blossom  yet, 
The  old  trees  o'er  it  lean. 

The  winds  so  sweet  with  birch  and  fern 

A  sweeter  memory  blow ; 
And  there  in  spring  the  veeries  sing 

The  song  of  long  ago. 

And  still  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 

Are  moaning  like  the  sea,  — 
The  moaning  of  the  sea  of  change 

Between  myself  and  thee  ! 

J.  G.  WHITTIER. 

13* 


SERENADE. 


CTARS  of  the  summer  night! 

Far  in  yon  azure  deeps, 
Hide,  hide  your  golden  light ! 

She  sleeps ! 
My  lady  sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

Moon  of  the  summer  night ! 

Far  down  yon  western  steeps, 
Sink,  sink  in  silver  light ! 

She  sleeps ! 
My  lady  sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

Wind  of  the  summer  night ! 

Where  yonder  woodbine  creeps. 
Fold,  fold  thy  pinions  light ! 

She  sleeps ! 
My  lady  sleeps ! 

Sleeps! 

Dreams  of  the  summer  night ! 
Tell  her,  her  lover  keeps 

133 


AMERICAN    SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


Watch  !  while  in  slumbers  light 

She  sleeps ! 
My  lady  sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 


'34 


THE   REPUBLIC. 


,  too,  sail  on,  O  Ship  of  State! 
Sail  on,  O  UNION,  strong  and  great! 
Humanity  with  all  its  fears, 
With  all  the  hopes  of  future  years, 
Is  hanging  breathless  on  thy  fate ! 
We  know  what  Master  laid  thy  keel, 
What  Workmen  wrought  thy  ribs  of  steel, 
Who  made  each  mast,  and  sail,  and  rope, 
What  anvils  rang,  what  hammers  beat, 
In  what  a  forge  and  what  a  heat 
Were  shaped  the  anchors  of  thy  hope ! 
Fear  not  each  sudden  sound  and  shock, 
'Tis  of  the  wave,  and  not  the  rock ; 
'Tis  but  the  flapping  of  the  sail, 
And  not  a  rent  made  by  the  gale ! 
In  spite  of  rock  and  tempest's  roar, 
In  spite  of  false  lights  on  the  shore, 
Sail  on,  nor  fear  to  breast  the  sea ! 
Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  are  all  with  thee, 
Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  tears, 
Our  faith  triumphant  o'er  our  fears, 
Are  all  with  thee,  —  are  all  with  thee  ! 

H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

1  From  "  The  Building  of  the  Ship." 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


IT  ER  suffering  ended  with  the  day, 

Yet  lived  she  at  its  close, 
And  breathed  the  long,  long  night  away 
In  statue-like  repose. 

But  when  the  sun  in  all  his  state 

Illumed  the  eastern  skies, 
She  passed  through  Glory's  morning  gate 

And  walked  in  Paradise. 

J.  ALDRICH. 


136 


TELLING   THE   BEES. 


IT  ERE  is  the  place ;  right  over  the  hill 

Runs  the  path  I  took ; 
You  can  see  the  gap  in  the  old  wall  still, 

And  the  stepping-stones  in  the  shallow  brook. 

There  is  the  house,  with  the  gate  red-barred, 

And  the  poplars  tall ; 
And  the  barn's  brown  length,  and  the  cattle-yard, 

And  the  white  horns  tossing  above  the  wall. 

There  are  the  beehives  ranged  in  the  sun ; 

And  down  by  the  brink 
Of  the  brook  are  her  poor  flowers,  weed-o'emm,  — 

Pansy  and  daffodil,  rose  and  pink. 

A  year  has  gone,  as  the  tortoise  goes, 

Heavy  and  slow; 
And  the  same  rose  blows,  and  the  same  sun  glows, 

And  the  same  brook  sings  of  a  year  ago. 

There's  the  same  sweet  clover-smell  in  the  breeze ; 
And  the  June  sun  warm 

.  137 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 

Tangles  his  wings  of  fire  in  the  trees, 
Setting,  as  then,  over-Fernside  farm. 

I  mind  me  how  with  a  lover's  care 

From  my  Sunday  coat 
I  brushed  off  the  burrs,  and  smoothed  my  hair, 

And  cooled  at  the  brookside  my  brow  and  throat 

Since  we  parted,  a  month  had  passed, — 

To  love,  a  year ; 
Down  through  the  beeches  I  looked  at  last 

On  the  little  red  gate  and  the  well-sweep  near. 

I  can  see  it  all  now,  —  the  slantwise  rain 

Of  light  through  the  leaves, 
The  sundown's  blaze  on  her  window-pane, 

The  bloom  of  her  roses  under  the  eaves. 

Just  the  same  as  a  month  before,  — 

The  house  and  the  trees, 
The  barn's  brown  gable,  the  vine  by  the  door,  — 

Nothing  changed  but  the  hives  of  bees. 

Before  them,  under  the  garden  wall, 

Forward  and  back, 
Went,  drearily  singing,  the  chore-girl  small, 

Draping  each  hive  with  a  shred  of  black. 


TELLING   THE   BEES. 

Trembling,  I  listened;  the  summer  sun 

Had  the  chill  of  snow ; 
For  I  knew  she  was  telling  the  bees  of  one 

Gone  on  the  journey  we  all  must  go ! 

Then  I  said  to  myself,  "  My  Mary  weeps 

For  the  dead  to-day ; 
Haply  her  blind  old  grandsire  sleeps 

The  fret  and  the  pain  of  his  age  away." 

But  her  dog  whined  low  ;  on  the  doorway  sill, 

With  his  cane  to  his  chin, 
The  old  man  sat ;  and  the  chore-girl  still 

Sung  to  the  bees  stealing  out  and  in. 

And  the  song  she  was  singing  ever  since 

In  my  ear  sounds  on : 
"  Stay  at  home,  pretty  bees,  fly  not  hence  ! 

Mistress  Mary  is  dead  and  gone ! " 

J.  G.  WHITTIER. 


139 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


T  T  may  be  through  some  foreign  grace, 

And  unfamiliar  charm  of  face ; 
It  may  be  that  across  the  foam 
Which  bore  her  from  her  childhood's  home, 
By  some  strange  spell,  my  Katie  brought 
Along  with  English  creeds  and  thought  — 
Entangled  in  her  golden  hair  — 
Some  English  sunshine,  warmth,  and  air ! 
I  cannot  tell,  —  but  here  to-day, 
A  thousand  billowy  leagues  away 
From  that  green  isle  whose  twilight  skies 
No  darker  are  than  Katie's  eyes, 
She  seems  to  me,  go  where  she  will, 
An  English  girl  in  England  still ! 

I  meet  her  on  the  dusty  street, 
And  daisies  spring  about  her  feet ; 
Or,  touched  to  life  beneath  her  tread, 
An  English  cowslip  lifts  its  head; 
And,  as  to  do  her  grace,  rise  up 
The  primrose  and  the  buttercup ! 
I  roam  with  her  through  fields  of  cane, 
And  seem  to  stroll  an  English  lane, 

,   1.40 


KATIE. 

Which,  white  with  blossoms  of  the  May, 

Spreads  its  green  carpet  in  her  way ! 

As  fancy  wills,  the  path  beneath 

Is  golden  gorse,  or  purple  heath ; 

And  now  we  hear  in  woodlands  dim 

Their  unarticulated  hymn, 

Now  walk  through  rippling  waves  of  wheat? 

Now  sink  in  mats  of  clover  sweet, 

Or  see  before  us  from  the  lawn 

The  lark  go  up  to  greet  the  dawn ! 

All  birds  that  love  the  English  sky 

Throng  round  my  path  when  she  is  by ; 

The  blackbird  from  a  neighboring  thorn 

With  music  brims  the  cup  of  morn, 

And  in  a  thick,  melodious  rain 

The  mavis  pours  her  mellow  strain ! 

But  only  when  my  Katie's  voice 

Makes  all  the  listening  woods  rejoice 

I  hear  —  with  cheeks  that  flush  and  pale  — 

The  passion  of  the  nightingale  ! 

H.  TIMROD. 


141 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


1^"  OT  as  all  other  women  are 

Is  she  that  to  my  soul  is  dear; 
Her  glorious  fancies  come  from  far, 
Beneath  the  silver  evening-star, 
And  yet  her  heart  is  ever  near. 

Great  feelings  hath  she  of  her  own, 
Which  lesser  souls  may  never  know ; 
God  giveth  them  to  her  alone, 
And  sweet  they  are  as  any  tone 
Wherewith  the  wind  may  choose  to  blow. 

Yet  in  herself  she  dwelleth  not, 
Although  no  home  were  half  so  fair; 
No  simplest  duty  is  forgot ; 
Life  hath  no  dim  and  lowly  spot 
That  doth  not  in  her  sunshine  share. 

She  doeth  little  kindnesses, 

Which  most  leave  undone,  or  despise ; 

For  naught  that  sets  one  heart  at  ease, 

And  giveth  happiness  or  peace, 

Is  low-esteemed  in  her  eyes. 

143 


MY   LOVE. 

She  hath  no  scorn  of  common  things, 
And,  though  she  seem  of  other  birth, 
Round  us  her  heart  intwines  and  clings, 
And  patiently  she  folds  her  wings 
To  tread  the  humble  paths  of  earth. 

Blessing  she  is ;  God  made  her  so, 
And  deeds  of  week-day  holiness 
Fall  from  her  noiseless  as  the  snow, 
Nor  hath  she  ever  chanced  to  know 
That  aught  were  easier  than  to  bless. 

She  is  most  fair,  and  thereunto 
Her  life  doth  rightly  harmonize ; 
Feeling  or  thought  that  was  not  true 
Ne'er  made  less  beautiful  the  blue 
Unclouded  heaven  of  her  eyes. 

She  is  a  woman ;  one  in  whom 
The  spring-time  of  her  childish  years 
Hath  never  lost  its  fresh  perfume, 
Though  knowing  well  that  life  hath  room 
For  many  blights  and  many  tears. 

I  love  her  with  a  love  as  still 

As  a  broad  river's  peaceful  might, 

'43 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


Which,  by  high  tower  and  lowly  mill, 
Goes  wandering  at  its  own  will, 
And  yet  doth  ever  flow  aright. 

And,  on  its  full,  deep  breast  serene, 

Like  quiet  isles  my  duties  lie ; 

It  flows  around  them  and  between, 

And  makes  them  fresh,  and  fair,  and  green, 

Sweet  homes  wherein  to  live  and  die. 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 


144 


SHE   CAME   AND   WENT. 


e  Came  ewb  Went 


A  S  a  twig  trembles,  which  a  bird 

Lights  on  to  sing,  then  leaves  unbent, 
So  is  my  memory  thrilled  and  stirred ;  — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

As  clasps  some  lake,  by  gusts  unriven, 
The  blue  dome's  measureless  content, 

So  my  soul  held  that  moment's  heaven ;  — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

As,  at  one  bound,  our  swift  spring  heaps 
The  orchards  full  of  bloom  and  scent, 

So  clove  her  May  my  wintry  sleeps  ;  — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

An  angel  stood  and  met  my  gaze, 

Through  the  low  doorway  of  my  tent; 

The  tent  is  struck,  the  vision  stays ;  — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

MS 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 

Oh,  when  the  room  grows  slowly  dim, 
And  life's  last  oil  is  nearly  spent, 

One  gush  of  light  these  eyes  will  brim, 
Only  to  think  she  came  and  went. 

J.  R.  LOWELL, 


146 


HER  EPITAPH. 


i>etr 


n^HE  handful  here,  that  once  was  Mary's  earth, 
Held,  while  it  breathed,  so  beautiful  a  soul, 
That,  when  she  died,  all  recognized  her  birth, 
And  had  their  sorrow  in  serene  control. 


"  Not  here !  not  here  ! "  to  every  mourner's  heart 
The  wintry  wind  seemed   whispering  round  her 
bier; 

And  when  the  tomb-door  opened,  with  a  start 
We  heard  it  echoed  from  within,  —  "  Not  here ! " 

Shouldst  thou,  sad  pilgrim,  who  mayst  hither  pass, 

Note  in  these  flowers  a  delicater  hue, 
Should  spring  come  earlier  to  this  hallowed  grass, 

Or  the  bee  later  linger  on  the  dew,  — 

Know  that  her  spirit  to  her  body  lent 

Such  sweetness,  grace,  as  only  goodness  can ; 

That  even  her  dust,  and  this  her  monument, 
Have  yet  a  spell  to  stay  one  lonely  man,  — 

H7 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 

Lonely  through  life,  but  looking  for  the  day 
When  what  is  mortal  of  himself  shall  sleep, 

When  human  passion  shall  have  passed  away, 
And  Love  no  longer  be  a  thing  to  weep. 

T.  W.  PARSONS. 


148 


THE  ESTRAY. 


^  me>  my  merry  woodman, 
Why  standest  so  aghast  ?  " 
"  My  lord  !  —  'twas  a  beautiful  creature 
That  hath  but  just  gone  past ! " 

"  A  creature  —  what  kind  of  a  creature  ?  " 
"  Nay,  now,  but  I  do  not  know  !  " 

•'  Humph  !  —  what  did  it  make  you  think  of?'* 
"  The  sunshine  on  the  snow." 

"  I  shall  overtake  my  horse  then." 
The  woodman  open'd  his  eye : 
The  gold  fell  all  around  him, 
And  a  rainbow  spann'd  the  sky. 

B.  F.  WILLSON. 


149 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


£0e  ©tecofceretr. 

T  HAVE  a  little  kinsman 

Whose  earthly  summers  are  but  three, 
And  yet  a  voyager  is  he 
Greater  than  Drake  or  Frobisher, 
Than  all  their  peers  together ! 
He  is  a  brave  discoverer, 
And,  far  beyond  the  tether 
Of  them  who  seek  the  frozen  Pole, 
Has  sailed  where  the  noiseless  surges  roll. 
Ay,  he  has  travelled  whither 
A  winged  pilot  steered  his  bark 
Through  the  portals  of  the  dark, 
Past  hoary  Mimir's  well  and  tree, 
Across  the  unknown  sea. 

Suddenly,  in  his  fair  young  hour, 
Came  one  who  bore  a  flower, 
And  laid  it  in  his  dimpled  hand 

With  this  command : 
"  Henceforth  thou  art  a  rover ! 
Thou  must  make  a  voyage  far, 


THE   DISCOVERER. 


Sail  beneath  the  evening  star, 
And  a  wondrous  land  discover." 
—  With  his  sweet  smile  innocent 
Our  little  kinsman  went. 

Since  that  time  no  word 

From  the  absent  has  been  heard. 

Who  can  tell 

How  he  fares,  or  answer  well 
What  the  little  one  has  found 
Since  he  left  us,  outward  bound  ? 
Would  that  he  might  return  ! 
Then  should  we  learn 
From  the  pricking  of  his  chart 
How  the  skyey  roadways  part. 
Hush  !  does  not  the  baby  this  way  bring, 
To  lay  beside  this  severed  curl, 

Some  starry  offering 
Of  chrysolite  or  pearl  ? 

Ah,  no !  not  so  ! 
We  may  follow  on  his  track, 

But  he  comes  not  back. 

And  yet  I  dare  aver 
He  is  a  brave  discoverer 
Of  climes  his  elders  do  <**»c  know. 

'5* 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 

He  has  more  learning  than  appears 

On  the  scroll  of  twice  three  thousand  years, 

More  than  in  the  groves  is  taught, 

Or  from  furthest  Indies  brought ; 

He  knows,  perchance,  how  spirits  fare,  — 

What  shapes  the  angels  wear, 

What  is  their  guise  and  speech 

In  those  lands  beyond  our  reach,  — 

And  his  eyes  behold 

Things  that  shall  never,  never  be  to  mortal  hearers 
.told. 

E.  C.  STEDMAN. 


AT  LAST. 


"\17HEN  first  the  bride  and  bridegroom  wed, 

They  love  their  single  selves  the  best ; 
A  sword  is  in  the  marriage  bed, 

Their  separate  slumbers  are  not  rest. 
They  quarrel,  and  make  up  again, 
They  give  and  suffer  worlds  of  pain. 
Both  right  and  wrong, 
They  struggle  long, 

Till  some  good  day,  when  they  are  old, 
Some  dark  day,  when  the  bells  are  tolled, 
Death  having  taken  their  best  of  life, 

They  lose  themselves,  and  find  each  other ; 
They  know  that  they  are  husband,  wife, 
For,  weeping,  they  are  Father,  Mother ! 

R.  H.  STODDARD. 


xFrom  "The   Poems  of   R.   H.  Stoddard,"  copyright    1880,  by 
Charles  Scribner's   Sons. 


'S3 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


CRY   OF   THE   TEN   THOUSAND. 

T  STAND  upon  the  summit  of  my  years. 

Behind,  the  toil,  the  camp,  the  march,  the  strife, 
The  wandering  and  the  desert ;  vast,  afar, 
Beyond  this  weary  way,  behold !  the  Sea ! 
The  sea  o'erswept  by  clouds  and  winds  and  wings, 
By  thoughts  and  wishes  manifold,  whose  breath 
Is  freshness  and  whose  mighty  pulse  is  peace. 
Palter  no  question  of  the  dim  Beyond ; 
Cut  loose  the  bark  ;  such  voyage  itself  is  rest ; 
Majestic  motion,  unimpeded  scope, 
A  widening  heaven,  a  current  without  care. 
Eternity !  —  Deliverance,  Promise,  Course  ! 
Time-tired  souls  salute  thee  from  the  shore. 

J.  B.  BROWN. 


'54 


GONDOLIEDS. 


i. 

YESTERDAY. 

"pvEAR  yesterday,  glide  not  so  fast; 

Oh,  let  me  cling 

To  thy  white  garments  floating  past; 
Even  to  shadows  which  they  cast 

I  cling,  I  cling. 

Show  me  thy  face 

Just  once,  once  more  ;  a  single  night 
Cannot  have  brought  a  loss,  a  blight 

Upon  its  grace. 

Nor  are  they  dead  whom  thou  dost  bear, 

Robed  for  the  grave. 
See  what  a  smile  their  red  lips  wear ; 
To  lay  them  living  wilt  thou  dare 

Into  a  grave  ? 

I  know,  I  know, 
I  left  thee  first ;  now  I  repent ; 
I  listen  now ;  I  never  meant 

To  have  thee  go. 

'55 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 

Just  once,  once  more,  tell  me  the  word 

Thou  hadst  for  me ! 
Alas  !  although  my  heart  was  stirred, 
I  never  fully  knew  or  heard 

It  was  for  me. 

O  yesterday, 

My  yesterday,  thy  sorest  pain 
Were  joy  couldst  thou  but  come  again,  — 

Sweet  yesterday. 
Venice,  foray  26. 

II. 

TO-MORROW. 

All  red  with  joy  the  waiting  west, 

O  little  swallow, 

Couldst  thou  tell  me  which  road  is  best  ? 
Cleaving  high  air  with  thy  soft  breast 

For  keel,  O  swallow, 

Thou  must  overlook 
My  seas  and  know  if  I  mistake ; 
I  would  not  the  same  harbor  make 

Which  yesterday  forsook. 

I  hear  the  swift  blades  dip  and  plash 
Of  unseen  rowers ; 

156 


GONDOLIEDS. 

On  unknown  land  the  waters  dash ; 
Who  knows  how  it  be  wise  or  rash 

To  meet  the  rowers ! 

Premi!  Premi! 

Venetians  boatmen  lean  and  cry ; 
With  voiceless  lips  I  drift  and  lie 

Upon  the  twilight  sea. 

The  swallow  sleeps.     Her  last  low  call 

Had  sound  of  warning. 
Sweet  little  one,  whatever  befall, 
Thou  wilt  not  know  that  it  was  all 

In  vain  thy  warning. 

I  may  not  borrow 
A  hope,  a  help.     I  close  my  eyes ; 
Cold  wind  blows  from  the  Bridge  of  Sighs ; 

Kneeling  I  wait  to-morrow. 

Venice^  May  jo. 

H.  H.  JACKSON. 


157 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


3n 


TVT  EN  say  the  sullen  instrument 

That,  from  the  Master's  bow, 
With  pangs  of  joy  or  woe, 
Feels  music's  soul  through  every  ibre  sent, 

Whispers  the  ravished  strings 
More  than  he  knew  or  meant  ; 
Old  summers  in  its  memory  glow  ; 
The  secrets  of  the  wind  it  sings  ; 
It  hears  the  April-loosened  springs  ; 
And  mixes  with  its  mood 
All  it  dreamed  when  it  stood 
In  the  murmurous  pine-wood 
Long  ago  ! 

The  magical  moonlight  then 

Steeped  every  bough  and  cone; 
The  roar  of  the  brook  in  the  glen 

Came  dim  from  the  distance  blown  ; 
The  wind  through  its  glooms  sang  low, 
And  it  swayed  to  and  fro 
With  delight  as  it  stood, 
In  the  wonderful  wood, 
Long  ago  ! 

158 


IN   THE   TWILIGHT. 

O  my  life,  have  we  not  had  seasons 

That  only  said,  "  Live  and  rejoice  ?  " 
That  asked  not  for  causes  and  reasons, 

But  made  us  all  feeling  and  voice  ? 
When  we  went  with  the  winds  in  their  blowing, 

When  Nature  and  we  were  peers, 
And  we  seemed  to  share  in  the  flowing 
Of  the  inexhaustible  years  ? 
Have  we  not  from  the  earth  drawn  juices 
Too  fine  for  earth's  sordid  uses  ? 
Have  I  heard,  have  I  seen 

All  I  feel  and  I  know? 
Doth  my  heart  overween  ? 
Or  could  it  have  been 
Long  ago  ? 


Sometimes  a  breath  floats  by  me, 

An  odor  from  Dreamland  sent, 
That  makes  the  ghost  seem  nigh  me 

Of  a  splendor  that  came  and  went, 
Of  a  life  lived  somewhere,  I  know  not 

In  what  diviner  sphere, 
Of  memories  that  stay  not  and  go  not, 

Like  music  heard  once  by  an  ear 
That  cannot  forget  or  reclaim  it, 
A  something  so  shy,  it  would  shame  it 

'59 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


To  make  it  a  show, 
A  something  too  vague,  could  I  name  it, 

For  others  to  know, 
As  if  I  had  lived  it  or  dreamed  it, 
As  if  I  had  acted  or  schemed  it, 
Long  ago ! 

And  yet,  could  I  live  it  over, 

This  life  that  stirs  in  my  brain, 
Could  I  be  both  maiden  and  lover, 
Moon  and  tide,  bee  and  clover, 

As  I  seem  to  have  been,  once  again, 
Could  I  but  speak  and  show  it, 

This  pleasure  more  sharp  than  pain, 
That  baffles  and  lures  me  so, 
The  world  should  not  lack  a  poet, 
Such  as  it  had 
In  the  ages  glad, 

Long  ago ! 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 


160 


THE   TIDE   RISES,   THE   TIDE   FALLS. 


i0e0,  flje 


O^HE  tide  rises,  the  tide  falls, 

The  twilight  darkens,  the  curlew  calls; 
Along  the  sea-sands  damp  and  brown 
The  traveller  hastens  toward  the  town, 
And  the  tide  rises,  the  tide  falls. 

Darkness  settles  on  roofs  and  walls, 
But  the  sea  in  the  darkness  calls  and  calls  ; 
The  little  waves,  with  their  soft,  white  hands, 
Efface  the  footprints  in  the  sands, 
And  the  tide  rises,  the  tide  falls. 

The  morning  breaks  ;  the  steeds  in  their  stalls 
Stamp  and  neigh,  as  the  hostler  calls  ; 
The  day  returns,  but  nevermore 
Returns  the  traveller  to  the  shore, 
And  the  tide  rises,  the  tide  falls. 

H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 


161 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


3fune.' 

FOR  a  cap  and  bells  our  lives  we  pay, 
Bubbles  we  buy  with  a  whole  soul's  tasking : 

'Tis  heaven  alone  that  is  given  away, 
'Tis  only  God  may  be  had  for  the  asking ; 
No  price  is  set  on  the  lavish  summer ; 
June  may  be  had  by  the  poorest  comer. 

And  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June  ? 

Then,  if  ever,  come  perfect  days; 
Then  Heaven  tries  earth  if  it  be  in  tune, 

And  over  it  softly  her  warm  ear  lays ; 
Whether  we  look  or  whether  we  listen, 
We  hear  life  murmur  or  see  it  glisten; 
Every  clod  feels  a  stir  of  might, 

An  instinct  within  it  that  reaches  and  towers, 
And,  groping  blindly  above  it  for  light, 

Climbs  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  flowers ; 
The  flush  of  life  may  well  be  seen 

Thrilling  back  over  hills  and  valleys; 
The  cowslip  startles  in  meadows  green, 

*  From  "  The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal." 
162 


JUNE. 


The  buttercup  catches  the  sun  in  its  chalice, 
And  there's  never  a  leaf  nor  a  blade  too  mean 

To  be  some  happy  creature's  palace ; 
The  little  bird  sits  at  his  door  in  the  sun, 

Atilt  like  a  blossom  among  the  leaves, 
And  lets  his  illumined  being  o'errun 

With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  receives  ; 
His  mate  feels  the  eggs  beneath  her  wings, 
And  the  heart  in  her  dumb  breast  flutters  and  sings ; 
He  sings  to  the  wide  world  and  she  to  her  nest,  — 
In  the  nice  ear  of  Nature  which  song  is  the  best? 

Now  is  the  high-tide  of  the  year, 

And  whatever  of  life  hath  ebbed  away 
Comes  flooding  back  with  a  ripply  cheer, 

Into  every  bare  inlet  and  creek  and  bay; 
Now  the  heart  is  so  full  that  a  drop  overfills  it, 
We  are  happy  now  because  God  wills  it ; 
No  matter  how  barren  the  past  may  have  been, 
'Tis  enough  for  us  now  that  the  leaves  are  green ; 
We  sit  in  the  warm  shade  and  feel  right  well 
How  the  sap  creeps  up  and  the  blossoms  swell ; 
We  may  shut  our  eyes,  but  we  cannot  help  knowing 
That  skies  are  clear  and  grass  is  growing ; 
The  breeze  comes  whispering  in  our  ear, 
That  dandelions  are  blossoming  near, 

That  maize  has  sprouted,  that  streams  are  flowing, 

163 


AMERICAN    SONGS   AND    LYRICS. 


That  the  river  is  bluer  than  the  sky, 
That  the  robin  is  plastering  his  house  hard  by; 
And  if  the  breeze  kept  the  good  news  back, 
For  other  couriers  we  should  not  lack ; 

We  could  guess  it  all  by  yon  heifer's  lowing,  — 
And  hark  !  how  clear  bold  chanticleer, 
Warmed  with  the  new  wine  of  the  year, 

Tells  all  in  his  lusty  crowing ! 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 


THE   RHODORA. 


ON   BEING   ASKED,    WHENCE   IS   THE   FLOWER? 

T  N  May,  when  sea-winds  pierced  our  solitudes, 

I  found  the  fresh  Rhodora  in  the  woods, 
Spreading  its  leafless  blooms  in  a  damp  nook, 
To  please  the  desert  and  the  sluggish  brook. 
The  purple  petals,  fallen  in  the  pool, 
Made  the  black  water  with  their  beauty  gay ; 
Here  might  the  red-bird  come  his  plumes  to  cool, 
And  court  the  flower  that  cheapens  his  array. 
Rhodora !  if  the  sages  ask  thee  why 
This  charm  is  wasted  on  the  earth  and  sky, 
Tell  them,  dear,  that  if  eyes  were  made  for  seeing, 
Then  Beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being : 
Why  thou  wert  there,  O  rival  of  the  rose ! 
I  never  thought  to  ask,  I  never  knew : 
But,  in  my  simple  ignorance,  suppose 
The  self-same  Power  that  brought  me  there  brought 
you. 

R.  W.  EMERSON. 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


(ftafure, 

/^v  NATURE  !     I  do  not  aspire 
^^^  To  be  the  highest  in  thy  quire,  — • 
To  be  a  meteor  in  the  sky, 
Or  comet  that  may  range  on  high ; 
Only  a  zephyr  that  may  blow 
Among  the  reeds  by  the  river  low ; 
Give  me  thy  most  privy  place 
Where  to  run  my  airy  race. 

In  some  withdrawn,  unpublic  mead 
Let  me  sigh  upon  a  reed, 
Or  in  the  woods,  with  leafy  din, 
Whisper  the  still  evening  in : 
Some  still  work  give  me  to  do,  — 
Only  —  be  it  near  to  you  ! 
For  Td  rather  be  thy  child 
And  pupil,  in  the  forest  wild, 
Than  be  the  king  of  men  elsewhere, 
And  most  sovereign  slave  of  care. 

H.  D.  THOREAU. 


166 


MY   STRAWBERRY. 


r\  MARVEL,  fruit  of  fruits,  I  pause 

To  reckon  thee.     I  ask  what  cause 
Set  free  so  much  of  red  from  heats 
At  core  of  earth,  and  mixed  such  sweets 
With  sour  and  spice :  what  was  that  strength 
Which  out  of  darkness,  length  by  length, 
Spun  all  thy  shining  thread  of  vine, 
Netting  the  fields  in  bond  as  thine. 
I  see  thy  tendrils  drink  by  sips 
From  grass  and  clover's  smiling  lips ; 
I  hear  thy  roots  dig  down  for  wells, 
Tapping  the  meadow's  hidden  cells : 

Whole  generations  of  green  things, 
Descended  from  long  lines  of  springs, 
I  see  make  room  for  thee  to  bide 
A  quiet  comrade  by  their  side; 
I  see  the  creeping  peoples  go 
Mysterious  journeys  to  and  fro, 
Treading  to  right  and  left  of  thee, 
Doing  thee  homage  wonderingly. 
I  see  the  wild  bees  as  they  fare, 
Thy  cups  of  honey  drink,  but  spare. 

167 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


I  mark  thee  bathe  and  bathe  again 
In  sweet  uncalendared  spring  rain. 
I  watch  how  all  May  has  of  sun 
Makes  haste  to  have  thy  ripeness  done, 
While  all  her  nights  let  dews  escape 
To  set  and  cool  thy  perfect  shape. 
Ah,  fruit  of  fruits,  no  more  I  pause 
To  dream  and  seek  thy  hidden  laws  1 
I  stretch  my  hand  and  dare  to  taste, 
In  instant  of  delicious  waste 
On  single  feast,  all  things  that  went 
To  make  the  empire  thou  hast  spent. 

H.  H.  JACKSON. 


1 68 


THE   HUMBLE-BEE. 


"DURLY,  dozing  humble-bee, 

Where  thou  art  is  clime  for  me. 
Let  them  sail  for  Porto  Rique, 
Far-off  heats  through  seas  to  seek ; 
I  will  follow  thee  alone, 
Thou  animated  torrid-zone ! 
Zigzag  steerer,  desert  cheerer, 
Let  me  chase  thy  waving  lines ; 
Keep  me  nearer,  me  thy  hearer, 
Singing  over  shrubs  and  vines. 

Insect  lover  of  the  sun, 
Joy  of  thy  dominion  ! 
Sailor  of  the  atmosphere ; 
Swimmer  through  the  waves  of  air ; 
Voyager  of  light  and  noon ; 
Epicurean  of  June ; 
Wait,  I  prithee,  till  I  come 
Within  earshot  of  thy  hum,  — 
All  without  is  martyrdom. 

When  the  south  wind,  in  May  days, 
With  a  net  of  shining  haze 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 

Silvers  the  horizon  wall, 
And  with  softness  touching  all, 
Tints  the  human  countenance 
With  a  color  of  romance, 
And  infusing  subtle  heats, 
Turns  the  sod  to  violets, 
Thou,  in  sunny  solitudes, 
Rover  of  the  underwoods, 
The  green  silence  dost  displace 
With  thy  mellow,  breezy  bass. 

Hot  midsummer's  petted  crone, 
Sweet  to  me  thy  drowsy  tone 
Tells  of  countless  sunny  hours, 
Long  days,  and  solid  banks  of  flowers ; 
Of  gulfs  of  sweetness  without  bound 
In  Indian  wildernesses  found ; 
Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure, 
Firmest  cheer,  and  bird-like  pleasure. 

Aught  unsavory  or  unclean 

Hath  my  insect  never  seen ; 

But  violets  and  bilberry  bells, 

Maple-sap  and  daffodels, 

Grass  with  green  flag  half-mast  high, 

Succory  to  match  the  sky, 

170 


THE   HUMBLE-BEE. 

Columbine  with  horn  of  honey, 
Scented  fern,  and  agrimony, 
Clover,  catchfly,  adder's-tongue, 
And  brier-roses,  dwelt  among ; 
All  beside  was  unknown  waste, 
All  was  picture  as  he  passed. 

Wiser  far  than  human  seer, 
Yellow-breeched  philosopher ! 
Seeing  only  what  is  fair, 
Sipping  only  what  is  sweet, 
Thou  dost  mock  at  fate  and  care, 
Leave  the  chaff,  and  take  the  wheat. 
When  the  fierce  northwestern  blast 
Cools  sea  and  land  so  far  and  fast, 
Thou  already  slumberest  deep ; 
Woe  and  want  thou  canst  outsleep ; 
Want  and  woe,  which  torture  us, 
Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous. 

R.  W.  EMERSON. 


171 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


of 

From  "  Song  of  Myself." 

T   AM  he  that  walks  with  the  tender  and  growing 

night, 

I  call  to  the  earth  and  sea  half-held  by  the  night. 
Press  close  bare-bosom'd  night  —  press  close  mag- 

netic nourishing  night  ! 

Night  of  south  winds  —  night  of  the  large  few  stars  ! 
Still  nodding  night  —  mad  naked  summer  night. 

Smile  O  voluptuous  cool-breath'd  earth  ! 

Earth  of  the  slumbering  and  liquid  trees  ! 

Earth  of  departed  sunset  —  earth  of  the  mountains 

misty-topt  ! 
Earth  of   the  vitreous  pour  of  the   full  moon   just 

tinged  with  blue  ! 
Earth  of  shine  and  dark  mottling  the  tide  of  the 

river  ! 
Earth  of   the  limpid  gray  of  clouds   brighter  and 

clearer  for  my  sake  ! 
Far-swooping   elbow'd  earth  —  rich  apple-blossom'  d 

earth  ! 
Smile,  for  your  lover  comes. 

W.  WHITMAN. 
172 


THE  ASCENT. 


From  "  Song  of  Myself." 

T    AM  an  acme  of  things  accomplish'd,  and  I  an 
encloser  of  things  to  be. 

My  feet  strike  an  apex  of  the  apices  of  the  stairs, 
On  every  step  bunches  of  ages,  and  larger  bunches 

between  the  steps, 
All  below  duly  travel'd,  and  still  I  mount  and  mount. 

Rise  after  rise  bow  the  phantoms  behind  me, 

Afar  down  I  see  the  huge  first  Nothing,  I  know  I 

was  even  there, 
I  waited  unseen  and  always,  and  slept  through  the 

lethargic  mist, 
And  took  my  time,  and  took  no  hurt  from  the  fetid 

carbon. 

Long  I  was  hugg'd  close  —  long  and  long. 

Immense  have  been  the  preparations  for  me, 
Faithful  and  friendly  the  arms  that  have  help'd  me. 

173 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


Cycles  ferried  my  cradle,  rowing  and  rowing   like 

cheerful  boatmen, 

For  room  to  me  stars  kept  aside  in  their  own  rings, 
They  sent  influences  to  look  after  what  was  to  hold 

me. 

Before  I  was  born  out  of  my  mother  generations 

guided  me, 
My  embryo   has  never  been  torpid,  nothing  could 

overlay  it. 

For  it  the  nebula  cohered  to  an  orb, 
The  long  slow  strata  piled  to  rest  it  on, 
Vast  vegetables  gave  it  sustenance, 
Monstrous  sauroids  transported  it  in  their  mouths 
and  deposited  it  with  care. 

All  forces  have  been  steadily  employed  to  complete 

and  delight  me, 
Now  on  this  spot  I  stand  with  my  robust  soul. 

W.  WHITMAN. 


TO   THE   DANDELION, 


to  f$e  ©cmbefton. 

DEAR  common  flower,  that  grow'st  beside  the  way, 
Fringing  the  dusty  road  with  harmless  gold, 

First  pledge  of  blithesome  May, 
Which  children  pluck,  and,  full  of  pride,  uphold, 

High-hearted  buccaneers,  o'erjoyed  that  they 
An  Eldorado  in  the  grass  have  found, 
Which  not  the  rich  earth's  ample  round 

May  match  in  wealth,  thou  art  more  dear  to  me 

Than  all  the  prouder  summer-blooms  may  be. 

Gold  such  as  thine  ne'er  drew  the  Spanish  prow 
Through  the  primeval  hush  of  Indian  seas, 

Nor  wrinkled  the  lean  brow 
Of  age,  to  rob  the  lover's  heart  of  ease ; 

'Tis  the  Spring's  largess,  which  she  scatters  now 
To  rich  and  poor  alike,  with  lavish  hand, 
Though  most  hearts  never  understand 

To  take  it  at  God's  value,  but  pass  by 

The  offered  wealth  with  unrewarded  eye. 

Thou  art  my  tropics  and  mine  Italy ; 
To  look  at  thee  unlocks  a  warmer  clime ; 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 

The  eyes  thou  givest  me 

Are  in  the  heart,  and  heed  not  space  or  time : 
Not  in  mid  June  the  golden-cuirassed  bee 

Feels  a  more  summer-like  warm  ravishment 

In  the  white  lily's  breezy  tent, 

His  fragrant  Sybaris,  than  I,  when  first 
From  the  dark  green  thy  yellow  circles  burst. 

Then  think  I  of  deep  shadows  on  the  grass, 
Of  meadows  where  in  sun  the  cattle  graze, 

Where,  as  the  breezes  pass, 
The  gleaming  rushes  lean  a  thousand  ways, 

Of  leaves  that  slumber  in  a  cloudy  mass, 
Or  whiten  in  the  wind,  of  waters  blue 
That  from  the  distance  sparkle  through 

Some  woodland  gap,  and  of  a  sky  above, 

Where  one  white  cloud  like  a  stray  lamb  doth  move. 

My  childhood's  earliest  thoughts  are  linked  with 

thee; 
The  sight  of  thee  calls  back  the  robin's  song, 

Who,  from  the  dark  old  tree 
Beside  the  door,  sang  clearly  all  day  long, 

And  I,  secure  in  childish  piety, 
Listened  as  if  I  heard  an  angel  sing 
With  news  from  heaven,  which  he  could  bring 

176 


TO   THE   DANDELION. 

Fresh  every  day  to  my  untainted  ears 

When  birds  and  flowers  and  I  were  happy  peers. 

How  like  a  prodigal  doth  Nature  seem, 
When  thou,  for  all  thy  gold,  so  common  art ! 

Thou  teachest  me  to  deem 
More  sacredly  of  every  human  heart, 

Since  each  reflects  in  joy  its  scanty  gleam 
Of  heaven,  and  could  some  wondrous  secret  show, 
Did  we  but  pay  the  love  we  owe, 

And  with  a  child's  undoubting  wisdom  look 

On  all  these  living  pages  of  God's  book. 

J.  R.  LOWELL, 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


€0am6ereb  (Itaufifu*. 

r"PHIS  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, 

Sails  the  unshadowed  main,  — 
The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Siren  sings, 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 

Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  streaming 
hair. 


Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl ; 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl ! 

And  every  chambered  cell, 
Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell, 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed,  — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed  ! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil ; 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new, 

178 


THE   CHAMBERED   NAUTILUS. 

Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door, 

Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old 
no  more. 


Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 

Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn ! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn ! 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 

Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a  voice 
that  sings : 


Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll ! 

Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past ! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 

Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting  sea ! 

O.  W.  HOLMES. 


'79 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


S~\  MESSENGER,  art  thou  the  king,  or  I  ? 

Thou  dalliest  outside  the  palace  gate 
Till  on  thine  idle  armor  lie  the  late 
And  heavy  dews.     The  morn's  bright  scornful  eye 
Reminds  thee ;  then,  in  subtle  mockery, 

Thou  smilest  at  the  window  where  I  wait, 
Who  bade  thee  ride  for  life.     In  empty  state 
My  days  go  on,  while  false  hours  prophesy 
Thy  quick  return ;  at  last,  in  sad  despair, 
I  cease  to  bid  thee,  leave  thee  free  as  air ; 

When  lo,  thou  stand'st  before  me  glad  and  fleet, 
And  lay'st  undreamed-of  treasures  at  my  feet. 
Ah  !  messenger,  thy  royal  blood  to  buy 
I  am  too  poor.     Thou  art  the  king,  not  I. 

H.  H.  JACKSON. 


180 


STANZAS. 


T^HOUGHT  is  deeper  than  all  speech, 

Feeling  deeper  than  all  thought; 
Souls  to  souls  can  never  teach 

What  unto  themselves  was  taught. 

We  are  spirits  clad  in  veils : 
Man  by  man  was  never  seen ; 

All  our  deep  communing  fails 
To  remove  the  shadowy  screen. 

Heart  to  heart  was  never  known ; 

Mind  with  mind  did  never  meet ; 
We  are  columns  left  alone 

Of  a  temple  once  complete. 

Like  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky, 
Far  apart,  though  seeming  near, 

In  our  light  we  scattered  lie ; 
All  is  thus  but  starlight  here. 

What  is  social  company 

But  a  babbling  summer  stream  ? 
What  our  wise  philosophy 

But  the  glancing  of  a  dream  ? 

181 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 

Only  when  the  sun  of  love 

Melts  the  scattered  stars  of  thought ; 
Only  when  we  live  above 

What  the  dim-eyed  world  hath  taught ; 

Only  when  our  souls  are  fed 

By  the  Fount  which  gave  them  birth, 
And  by  inspiration  led, 

Which  they  never  drew  from  earth, 

We,  like  parted  drops  of  rain 
Swelling  till  they  meet  and  run, 

Shall  be  all  absorbed  again, 
Melting,  flowing  into  one. 

C.  P.  CRANCH. 


182 


CORONATION. 


Coronation. 

A  T  the  king's  gate  the  subtle  noon 
Wove  filmy  yellow  nets  of  sun ; 
Into  the  drowsy  snare  too  soon 
The  guards  fell  one  by  one. 

Through  the  king's  gate,  unquestioned  then, 
A  beggar  went,  and  laughed,  "  This  brings 

Me  chance,  at  last,  to  see  if  men 
Fare  better,  being  kings." 

The  king  sat  bowed  beneath  his  crown, 
Propping  his  face  with  listless  hand ; 

Watching  the  hour-glass  sifting  down 
Too  slow  its  shining  sand. 

"  Poor  man,  what  wouldst  thou  have  of  me  ?  " 
The  beggar  turned,  and,  pitying, 

Replied,  like  one  in  dream,  "  Of  thee, 
Nothing.     I  want  the  king." 

Uprose  the  king,  and  from  his  head 
Shook  off  the  crown  and  threw  it  by. 

"  O  man,  thou  must  have  known,"  he  said, 
"  A  greater  king  than  I." 

183 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


Through  all  the  gates,  unquestioned  then, 
Went  king  and  beggar  hand  in  hand. 

Whispered  the  king,  "Shall  I  know  when 
Before  his  throne  I  stand  ?  " 

The  beggar  laughed.     Free  winds  in  haste 
Were  wiping  from  the  king's  hot  brow 

The  crimson  lines  the  crown  had  traced. 
"  This  is  his  presence  now." 

At  the  king's  gate  the  crafty  noon 

Unwove  its  yellow  nets  of  sun ; 
Out  of  their  sleep  in  terror  soon 

The  guards  waked  one  by  one. 

"  Ho  here  !     Ho  there  !     Has  no  man  seen 
The  king? "     The  cry  ran  to  and  fro ; 

Beggar  and  king,  they  laughed,  I  ween, 
The  laugh  that  free  men  know. 

On  the  king's  gate  the  moss  grew  gray ; 

The  king  came  not.     They  called  him  dead ; 
And  made  his  eldest  son  one  day 

Slave  in  his  father's  stead. 

H.  H.  JACKSON. 


184 


ON  A   BUST   OF  DANTE. 


a  Q5u0f  of  ©ante, 


C  EE,  from  this  counterfeit  of  him 

Whom  Arno  shall  remember  long, 
How  stern  of  lineament,  how  grim, 

The  father  was  of  Tuscan  song  : 
There  but  the  burning  sense  of  wrong, 

Perpetual  care  and  scorn,  abide  ; 
Small  friendship  for  the  lordly  throng; 

Distrust  of  all  the  world  beside. 

Faithful  if  this  wan  image  be, 

No  dream  his  life  was,  —  but  a  fight  ; 
Could  any  Beatrice  see 

A  lover  in  that  anchorite  ? 
To  that  cold  Ghibelline's  gloomy  sight 

Who  could  have  guessed  the  visions  came 
Of  Beauty,  veiled  with  heavenly  light, 

In  circles  of  eternal  flame  ? 

The  lips  as  Cumae's  cavern  close, 

The  cheeks  with  fast  and  sorrow  thin, 

The  rigid  front,  almost  morose, 
But  for  the  patient  hope  within, 

185 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 

Declare  a  life  whose  course  hath  been 
Unsullied  still,  though  still  severe ; 

Which,  through  the  wavering  days  of  sin, 
Kept  itself  icy-chaste  and  clear. 

Not  wholly  such  his  haggard  look 

When  wandering  once,  forlorn,  he  strayed, 
With  no  companion  save  his  book, 

To  Corvo's  hushed  monastic  shade ; 
Where,  as  the  Benedictine  laid 

His  palm  upon  the  convent's  guest, 
The  single  boon  for  which  he  prayed 

Was  peace,  that  pilgrim's  one  request. 

Peace  dwells  not  here,  —  this  rugged  face 

Betrays  no  spirit  of  repose  ; 
The  sullen  warrior  sole  we  trace, 

The  marble  man  of  many  woes. 
Such  was  his  mien  when  first  arose 

The  thought  of  that  strange  tale  divine. 
When  hell  he  peopled  with  his  foes, 

The  scourge  of  many  a  guilty  line. 

War  to  the  last  he  waged  with  all 
The  tyrant  canker-worms  of  earth ; 

Baron  and  duke,  in  hold  and  hall, 

Cursed  the  dark  hour  that  gave  him  birth  ; 

186 


ON  A  BUST   OF  DANTE. 

He  used  Rome's  harlot  for  his  mirth ; 

Plucked  bare  hypocrisy  and  crime ; 
But  valiant  souls  of  knightly  worth 

Transmitted  to  the  rolls  of  Time. 

O  Time !  whose  verdicts  mock  our  own5 

The  only  righteous  judge  art  thou ; 
That  poor  old  exile,  sad  and  lone, 

Is  Latium's  other  Virgil  now : 
Before  his  name  the  nations  bow ; 

His  words  are  parcel  of  mankind, 
Deep  in  whose  hearts,  as  on  his  brow, 

The  marks  have  sunk  of  Dante's  mind. 
T.  W.  PARSONS 


187 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


Lines  written  on  the  occasion  of  Lincoln's  death. 

S~\   CAPTAIN!   my  Captain!   our   fearful  trip  is 

done, 
The  ship   has  weather'd  every  rack,  the  prize  we 

sought  is  won, 
The  port  is  near,  the  bells   I  hear,  the  people  all 

exulting, 

While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim 
and  daring ; 

But  O  heart!  heart!  heart! 
O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 
Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

O  Captain  !  my  Captain  !   rise  up  and  hear  the  bells ; 
Rise  up  —  for  you  the  flag  is  flung  —  for  you  the 

bugle  trills, 
For  you  bouquets  and  ribbon'd  wreaths  —  for  you  the 

shores  a-crowding, 
For  you  they   call,  the    swaying  mass,  their  eager 

faces  turning; 

1 88 


O  CAPTAIN!  MY  CAPTAIN! 


Here  Captain !  dear  father ! 
This  arm  beneath  your  head ! 

It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck, 
You've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 

My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and 

still, 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse  nor 

will, 
The  ship  is  anchor'd  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage  closed 

and  done, 

From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in  with  object 
won; 

Exult  O  shores,  and  ring  O  bells ! 
But  I  with  mournful  tread 

Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

W.  WHITMAN. 


189 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


(Bnbgmion* 

'"PHE  rising  moon  has  hid  the  stars; 

Her  level  rays,  like  golden  bars, 
Lie  on  the  landscape  green, 
With  shadows  brown  between. 

And  silver  white  the  river  gleams, 
As  if  Diana,  in  her  dreams, 

Had  dropt  her  silver  bow 

Upon  the  meadows  low. 

On  such  a  tranquil  night  as  this, 

She  woke  Endymion  with  a  kiss, 

When,  sleeping  in  the  grove, 

He  dream  c  1  not  of  her  love. 

Like  Dian's  kiss,  unasked,  unsought, 
Love  gives  itself,  but  is  not  bought ; 
Nor  voice,  nor  sound  betrays 
Its  deep,  impassioned  gaze. 

It  comes,  —  the  beautiful,  the  free, 
The  crown  of  all  humanity,  — 

In  silence  and  alone 

To  seek  the  elected  one. 

190 


ENDYMION. 

It  lifts  the  boughs,  whose  shadows  deep 
Are  Life's  oblivion,  the  soul's  sleep, 

And  kisses  the  closed  eyes 

Of  him  who  slumbering  lies. 

O  weary  hearts !     O  slumbering  eyes ! 
O  drooping  souls,  whose  destinies 

Are  fraught  with  fear  and  pain, 

Ye  shall  be  loved  again ! 

No  one  is  so  accursed  by  fate, 
No  one  so  utterly  desolate, 

But  some  heart,  though  unknown, 

Responds  unto  his  own. 

Responds,  —  as  if  with  unseen  wings 
An  angel  touched  its  quivering  strings ; 

And  whispers,  in  its  song, 
"  Where  hast  thou  stayed  so  long  ? " 

H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


TV/T Y  heart,  I  cannot  still  it, 

Nest  that  had  song-birds  in  it? 
And  when  the  last  shall  go, 
The  dreary  days,  to  fill  it, 
Instead  of  lark  or  linnet, 
Shall  whirl  dead  leaves  and  snow. 

Had  they  been  swallows  only, 
Without  the  passion  stronger 
That  skyward  longs  and  sings,  — 
Woe's  me,  I  shall  be  lonely 
When  I  can  feel  no  longer 
The  impatience  of  their  wings ! 

A  moment,  sweet  delusion, 
Like  birds  the  brown  leaves  hover ; 
But  it  will  not  be  long 
Before  their  wild  confusion 
Fall  wavering  down  to  cover 
The  poet  and  his  song. 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 


192 


BIRDS. 


TDIRDS  are  singing  round  my  window, 

Tunes  the  sweetest  ever  heard, 
And  I  hang  my  cage  there  daily, 
But  I  never  catch  a  bird. 

So  with  thoughts  my  brain  is  peopled, 
And  they  sing  there  all  day  long : 

But  they  will  not  fold  their  pinions 
In  the  little  cage  of  Song. 

R.  H.  STODDARD. 


'From  "The   Poems  of  R.   H.    Stoddard,"  copyright,  1880,  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

193 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


pRITHEE  tell  me,  Dimple-Chin, 
At  what  age  does  Love  begin  ? 
Your  blue  eyes  have  scarcely  seen 
Summers  three,  my  fairy  queen, 
But  a  miracle  of  sweets, 
Soft  approaches,  sly  retreats, 
Show  the  little  archer  there, 
Hidden  in  your  pretty  hair; 
When  didst  learn  a  heart  to  win? 
Prithee  tell  me,  Dimple-Chin  ! 

"  Oh  !  "  the  rosy  lips  reply, 
"  I  can't  tell  you  if  I  try. 
'Tis  so  long  I  can't  remember : 
Ask  some  younger  lass  than  I !  " 

Tell,  oh,  tell  me,  Grizzled-Face, 
Do  your  heart  and  head  keep  pace  ? 
When  does  hoary  Love  expire, 
When  do  frosts  put  out  the  fire  ? 
Can  its  embers  burn  below 
All  that  chill  December  snow  ? 

194 


TOUJOURS   AMOUR. 

Care  you  still  soft  hands  to  press, 
Bonny  heads  to  smooth  and  bless  ? 
When  does  Love  give  up  the  chase  ? 
Tell,  oh,  tell  me,  Grizzled-Face ! 

"  Ah  !  "  the  wise  old  lips  reply, 

"  Youth  may  pass  and  strength  may  die ; 

But  of  Love  I  can't  foretoken  : 

Ask  some  older  sage  than  I ! " 

E.  C.  STEDMAN. 


195 


AMERICAN   SONGS  AND   LYRICS. 


T  T  was  nothing  but  a  rose  I  gave  her,  — - 

Nothing  but  a  rose 
Any  wind  might  rob  of  half  its  savor, 
Any  wind  that  blows. 

When  she  took  it  from  my  trembling  fingers 

With  a  hand  as  chill,  — 
Ah,  the  flying  touch  upon  them  lingers, 

Stays,  and  thrills  them  still ! 

Withered,  faded,  pressed  between  the  pages, 

Crumpled  fold  on  fold,  — 
Once  it  lay  upon  her  breast,  and  ages 

Cannot  make  it  old  ! 

H.  P.  SPOFFORD, 


NO   MORE. 


(fto  ®lore» 

'T* HIS  is  the  Burden  of  the  Heart, 

The  Burden  that  it  always  bore  *. 
We  live  to  love  ;  we  meet  to  part ; 

And  part  to  meet  on  earth  1      More: 
We  clasp  each  other  to  the  heart, 

And  part  to  meet  on  earth  No  More. 

There  is  a  time  for  tears  to  start,  — 
For  dews  to  fall  and  larks  to  soar : 

The  Time  for  Tears,  is  when  we  part 
To  meet  upon  the  earth  No  More  : 

The  Time  for  Tears,  is  when  we  part 
To  meet  on  this  wide  earth  —  No  More. 

B.  F.  WILLSON. 


197 


AMERICAN    SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


£o  a  TJoung  &ivt  ©ging. 

WITH   A   GIFT   OF   FRESH   PALM-LEAVES. 


is  Palm  Sunday:  mindful  of  the  day, 
I  bring  palm  branches,  found  upon  my  way  : 
But  these  will  wither  ;  thine  shall  never  die,  — 
The  sacred  palms  thou  bearest  to  the  sky  ! 
Dear  little  saint,  though  but  a  child  in  years, 
Older  in  wisdom  than  my  gray  compeers  ! 
We  doubt  and  tremble,  —  we,  with  bated  breath, 
Talk  of  this  mystery  of  life  and  death  : 
Thou,  strong  in  faith,  art  gifted  to  conceive 
Beyond  thy  years,  and  teach  us  to  believe  ! 

Then  take  my  palms,  triumphal,  to  thy  home, 
Gentle  white  palmer,  never  more  to  roam  ! 
Only,  sweet  sister,  give  me,  ere  thou  go'st, 
Thy  benediction,  —  for  my  love  thou  know'st  ! 
We,  too,  are  pilgrims,  travelling  towards  the  shrine  , 
Pray  that  our  pilgrimage  may  end  like  thine  ! 

T.  W.  PARSONS. 


198 


THE   PORT   OF  SHIPS. 


of 


T)EHIND  him  lay  the  gray  Azores, 
Behind  the  Gates  of  Hercules  ; 
Before  him  not  the  ghost  of  shores, 

Before  him  only  shoreless  seas. 
The  good  mate  said  :  "  Now  must  we  pray, 

For  lo  !  the  very  stars  are  gone. 
Brave  Adm'ral  speak,  —  what  shall  I  say  ?  " 

«  Why,  say,  «  Sail  on  !  Sail  on  !  and  on  !  '  " 

"  My  men  grow  mutinous  day  by  day  ; 

My  men  grow  ghastly,  wan  and  weak." 
The  stout  mate  thought  of  home  ;  a  spray 

Of  salt  wave  washed  his  swarthy  cheek. 
"  What  shall  I  say,  brave  Adm'ral,  say, 

If  we  sight  naught  but  seas  at  dawn?  " 
"  Why,  you  shall  say,  at  break  of  day, 

«  Sail  on  !  Sail  on  !  Sail  on  !  and  on  !  '  " 

They  sailed,  and  sailed,  as  winds  might  blow, 
Until  at  last  the  blanched  mate  said  : 

"  Why,  now  not  even  God  would  know 
Should  I  and  all  my  men  fall  dead. 

1  From  The  Complete  Poetical  Works  of  Joaquin  Miller. 
199 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 

These  very  winds  forget  their  way, 

For  God  from  these  dread  seas  is  gone. 

Now  speak,  brave  Adm'ral ;  speak,  and  say  —  " 
He  said:  "  Sail  on  !     Sail  on  !  and  on  !  " 

They  sailed  !  They  sailed  !  Then  spake  the  mate: 

"  This  mad  sea  shows  its  teeth  to-night ; 
He  curls  his  lip,  he  lies  in  wait 

With  lifted  teeth,  as  if  to  bite  ! 
Brave  Adm'ral,  say  but  one  good  word,  — 

What  shall  we  do  when  hope  is  gone  ?  " 
The  words  leaped  as  a  leaping  sword : 

«  Sail  on  !  Sail  on  !  Sail  on  !  and  on  !  " 

C.  H.  MILLER. 


200 


PARADISI   GLORIA. 


nn  HE  RE  is  a  city,  builded  by  no  hand, 

And  unapproachable  by  sea  or  shore, 
And  unassailable  by  any  band 

Of  storming  soldiery  for  evermore. 

There  we  no  longer  shall  divide  our  time 
By  acts  or  pleasures,  —  doing  petty  things 

Of  work  or  warfare,  merchandise  or  rhyme  ; 
But  we  shall  sit  beside  the  silver  springs 

That  flow  from  God's  own  footstool,  and  behold 
Sages  and  martyrs,  and  those  blessed  few 

Who  loved  us  once  and  were  beloved  of  old, 
To  dwell  with  them  and  walk  with  them  anew, 

In  alternations  of  sublime  repose, 
Musical  motion,  the  perpetual  play 

Of  every  faculty  that  Heaven  bestows 

Through  the  bright,  busy,  and  eternal  day. 
T.  W.  PARSONS. 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


T  N  the  summer  even, 

While  yet  the  dew  was  hoar, 
I  went  plucking  purple  pansies, 

Till  my  love  should  come  to  shore. 
The  fishing-lights  their  dances 

Were  keeping  out  at  sea, 
And  come,  I  sung,  my  true  love ! 

Come  hasten  home  to  me ! 

But  the  sea,  it  fell  a-moaning, 

And  the  white  gulls  rocked  thereon ; 
And  the  young  moon  dropped  from  heaven, 

And  the  lights  hid  one  by  one. 
All  silently  their  glances 

Slipped  down  the  cruel  sea, 
And  wait !  cried  the  night  and  wind  and 
storm,  — 

Wait,  till  I  come  to  thee  ! 

H.  P.  SPOFFORD. 


202 


BOOK  THIRD. 


THE   FOOL'S   PRAYER. 


$oof  0 


HTHE  royal  feast  was  done;  the  King 

Sought  some  new  sport  to  banish  care, 
And  to  his  jester  cried  :  "  Sir  Fool, 

Kneel  now,  and  make  for  us  a  prayer  !  " 

The  jester  doffed  his  cap  and  bells, 
And  stood  the  mocking  court  before  ; 

They  could  not  see  the  bitter  smile 
Behind  the  painted  grin  he  wore. 

He  bowed  his  head,  and  bent  his  knee 
Upon  the  monarch's  silken  stool  ; 

His  pleading  voice  arose  :  "  O  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool  ! 

"  No  pity,  Lord,  could  change  the  heart 
From  red  with  wrong  to  white  as  wool  5 

The  rod  must  heal  the  sin  :  but,  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool  ! 

"  'Tis  not  by  guilt  the  onward  sweep 
Of  truth  and  right,  O  Lord,  we  stay  ; 

'Tis  by  our  follies  that  so  long 

We  hold  the  earth  from  heaven  away. 

205 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


"  These  clumsy  feet,  still  in  the  mire, 
Go  crushing  blossoms  without  end ; 

These  hard,  well-meaning  hands  we  thrust 
Among  the  heart-strings  of  a  friend. 

"  The  ill-timed  truth  we  might  have  kept  — 
Who  knows  how  sharp  it  pierced  and  stung  ? 

The  word  we  had  not  sense  to  say  — 
Who  knows  how  grandly  it  had  rung  ? 

"  Our  faults  no  tenderness  should  ask, 

The  chastening  stripes  must  cleanse  them  all ; 

But  for  our  blunders  —  oh,  in  shame 
Before  the  eyes  of  heaven  we  fall. 

"  Earth  bears  no  balsam  for  mistakes ; 

Men  crown  the  knave,  and  scourge  the  tool 
That  did  his  will ;  but  Thou,  O  Lord, 

Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool !  " 

The  room  was  hushed  ;  in  silence  rose 
The  King,  and  sought  his  gardens  cool, 

And  walked  apart,  and  murmured  low, 
"  Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool !  " 

E.  R.  SILL. 


206 


ON  THE  LIFE -MASK  OF  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 


of  @6ra0am  feincofn. 


'T^HIS  bronze  doth  keep  the  very  form  and  mold 
Of  our  great  martyr's  face.     Yes,  this  is  he  : 
That  brow  all  wisdom,  all  benignity  ; 

That  human,   humorous   mouth;  those  cheeks  that 
hold 

Like  some  harsh  landscape  all  the  summer's  gold  ; 
That  spirit  fit  for  sorrow,  as  the  sea 
For  storms  to  beat  on  ;  the  lone  agony 

Those  silent,  patient  lips  too  well  foretold. 

Yes,  this  is  he  who  ruled  a  world  of  men 
As  might  some  prophet  of  the  elder  day,  — 
Brooding  above  the  tempest  and  the  fray 

With  deep-eyed  thought  and  more  than  mortal  ken. 
A  power  was  his  beyond  the  touch  of  art 
Or  armed  strength  :  his  pure  and  mighty  heart. 

R.  W.  GILDER. 


207 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


"WEARS  have  flown  since  I  knew  thee  first, 

And  I  know  thee  as  water  is  known  of  thirst : 
Yet  I  knew  thee  of  old  at  the  first  sweet  sight, 
And  thou  art  strange  to  me,  Love,  to-night. 

R.  W.  GILDER. 


208 


TO   A   DEAD   WOMAM. 


a  ©eafc 


*M"  OT  a  kiss  in  life  ;  but  one  kiss,  at  life's  end, 

I  have  set  on  the  face  of  Death  in  trust  for 

thee. 
Through  long   years  keep  it  fresh  on  thy  lips,  O 

friend  ! 
At  the  gate  of  Silence  give  it  back  to  me. 

H.    C.   BUNNER. 


1  From  "  The  Poems  of  H.  C.  Bunner,"  copyright,  1884,  1892, 1896, 
by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

"09 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


roses,  wan  as  moonlight,   and   weighed 
down 

Each  with  its  loveliness  as  with  a  crown, 
Drooped  in  a  florist's  window  in  a  town. 

The  first  a  lover  bought.     It  lay  at  rest, 

Like  flower  on  flower,  that  night,  on  Beauty's  breast 

The  second  rose,  as  virginal  and  fair, 
Shrunk  in  the  tangles  of  a  harlot's  hair. 

The  third,  a  widow,  with  new  grief  made  wilcl 
Shut  in  the  icy  palm  of  her  dead  child. 

T.  B.  ALDRICH. 
v 


THE   KINGS. 


A    MAN  said  unto  his  angel : 
""     "  My  spirits  are  fallen  thro', 
And  I  cannot  carry  this  battle ; 
O  brother !  what  shall  I  do  ? 

"  The  terrible  Kings  are  on  me, 
With  spears  that  are  deadly  bright, 
Against  me  so  from  the  cradle 
Do  fate  and  my  fathers  fight." 

Then  said  to  the  man  his  angel: 
"  Thou  wavering,  foolish  soul, 
Back  to  the  ranks !     What  matter 
To  win  or  to  lose  the  whole, 

"As  judged  by  the  little  judges 
Who  hearken  not  well,  nor  see  ? 
Not  thus,  by  the  outer  issue, 
The  Wise  shall  interpret  thee. 

"  Thy  will  is  the  very,  the  only, 
The  solemn  event  of  things ; 
The  weakest  of  hearts  defying 
Is  stronger  than  all  these  Kings. 


AMERICAN    SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


"  Tho'  out  of  the  past  they  gather, 
Mind's  Doubt  and  bodily  Pain, 
And  pallid  Thirst  of  the  Spirit 
That  is  kin  to  the  other  twain, 

"  And  Grief,  in  a  cloud  of  banners, 
And  ringletted  Vain  Desires, 
And  Vice  with  the  spoils  upon  him 
Of  thee  and  thy  beaten  sires, 

"  While  Kings  of  eternal  evil 
Yet  darken  the  hills  about, 
Thy  part  is  with  broken  sabre 
To  rise  on  the  last  redoubt ; 

u  To  fear  not  sensible  failure, 
Nor  covet  the  game  at  all, 
But  fighting,  fighting,  fighting, 
Die,  driven  against  the  wall !  " 

L.  I.  GUINEY. 


212 


TRIUMPH. 


'"PHE  dawn  came  in  through  the  bars  of 
the  blind,— 

And  the  winter's  dawn  is  gray,  — 
And  said,  "  However  you  cheat  your  mind, 

The  hours  are  flying  away." 

A  ghost  of  a  dawn,  and  pale,  and  weak,  — 

"  Has  the  sun  a  heart,"  I  said, 
"  To  throw  a  morning  flush  on  the  cheek 

Whence  a  fairer  flush  has  fled  ? " 

As  a  gray  rose-leaf  that  is  fading  white 
Was  the  cheek  where  I  set  my  kiss ; 

And  on  that  side  of  the  bed  all  night 
Death  had  watched,  and  I  on  this. 

I  kissed  her  lips,  they  were  half  apart, 
Yet  they  made  no  answering  sign ; 

Death's  hand  was  on  her  failing  heart, 
And  his  eyes  said,  "  She  is  mine." 

1  From  "  The  Poems  of  H.  C.  Bunner,"  copyright,  1884, 1892, 1896, 
by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

213 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


I  set  my  lips  on  the  blue-veined  lid, 
Half-veiled  by  her  death-damp  hair; 

And  oh,  for  the  violet  depths  it  hid 
And  the  light  I  longed  for  there ! 

Faint  day  and  the  fainter  life  awoke, 

And  the  night  was  overpast; 
And  I  said,  "  Though  never  in  life  you  spoke 

Oh,  speak  with  a  look  at  last !  " 

For  the  space  of  a  heart-beat  fluttered  her  breath, 

As  a  bird's  wing  spread  to  flee ; 
She  turned  her  weary  arms  to  Death, 

And  the  light  of  her  eyes  to  me. 

H.    C.   BUNNER. 


214 


EVENING   SONG. 


(Evening 


T   OOK  off,  dear  Love,  across  the  sallow  sands, 
And  mark  yon  meeting  of  the  sun  and  sea, 
How  long  they  kiss  in  sight  of  all  the  lands. 
Ah  !  longer,  longer,  we. 

Now  in  the  sea's  red  vintage  melts  the  sun, 
As  Egypt's  pearl  dissolved  in  rosy  wine, 

And  Cleopatra  night  drinks  all.  'Tis  done, 
Love,  lay  thine  hand  in  mine. 

Come  forth,  sweet  stars,  and  comfort  heaven's  heart  ; 

Glimmer,  ye  waves,  round  else  unlighted  sands. 
O  night  !  divorce  our  sun  and  sky  apart, 

Never  our  lips,  our  hands. 

S.  LANIER. 


1  From  "  Poems  of  Sidney  Lanier,"  copyright,  1884,  1891,  by  Mary 
D.  Lanier,  published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


(gring  tye 


'~pHE  wind  from  out  the  west  is  blowing, 

The  homeward-wandering  cows  are  lowing, 
Dark  grow  the  pine-woods,  dark  and  drear, — 
The  woods  that  bring  the  sunset  near. 


When  o'er  wide  seas  the  sun  declines, 
Far  off  its  fading  glory  shines, 
Far  off,  sublime,  and  full  of  fear,  — 
The  pine-woods  bring  the  sunset  near. 

This  house  that  looks  to  east,  to  west, 
This,  dear  one,  is  our  home,  our  rest ; 
Yonder  the  stormy  sea,  and  here 
The  woods  that  bring  the  sunset  near. 

R.  W.  GILDER. 


216 


MY   LOVE   FOR   THEE. 


feofce  Sot 


TV/T  Y  love  for  thee  doth  march  like  armed  men, 
Against  a  queenly  city  they  would  take. 

Along  the  army's  front  its  banners  shake  ; 
Across  the  mountain  and  the  sun-smit  plain 
It  steadfast  sweeps  as  sweeps  the  steadfast  rain  ; 

And  now  the  trumpet  makes  the  still  air  quake, 

And  now  the  thundering  cannon  doth  awake 
Echo  on  echo,  echoing  loud  again. 
But,  lo  !  the  conquest  higher  than  bard  e'er  sung  : 

Instead  of  answering  cannon,  proud  surrender  ! 
Joyful  the  iron  gates  are  open  flung 

And,  for  the  conqueror,  welcome  gay  and  tender  ! 
Oh,  bright  the  invader's  path  with  tribute  flowers, 
While  comrade  flags  flame  forth  on  wall  and  towers  ! 

R.  W.  GILDER. 


217 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


in  £08  &o*e  3  trust" 


CTILL  in  thy  love  I  trust, 

Supreme  o'er  death,  since  deathless  is  thy 

essence  ; 

For,  putting  off  the  dust, 
Thou  hast  but  blest  me  with  a  nearer  presence. 

And  so,  for  this,  for  all, 

I  breathe  no  selfish  plaint,  no  faithless  chiding  ; 

On  me  the  snowflakes  fall, 

But  thou  hast  gained  a  summer  all-abiding. 

Striking  a  plaintive  string, 
Like  some  poor  harper  at  a  palace  portal, 
I  wait  without  and  sing, 

While  those  I  love  glide  in  and  dwell  immortal. 

A.  A.  FIELDS. 


218 


THE   FUTURE. 


£0e  $ufure. 

"IITHAT  may  we  take  into  the  vast  Forever ? 

That  marble  door 
Admits  no  fruit  of  all  our  long  endeavor, 

No  fame-wreathed  crown  we  wore, 

No  garnered  lore. 

What  can  we  bear  beyond  the  unknown  portal  ? 

No  gold,  no  gains 
Of  all  our  toiling  :  in  the  life  immortal 

No  hoarded  wealth  remains, 

Nor  gilds,  nor  stains. 

Naked  from  out  that  far  abyss  behind  us 

We  entered  here : 
No  word  came  with  our  coming,  to  remind  us 

What  wondrous  world  was  near, 

No  hope,  no  fear. 

Into  the  silent,  starless  Night  before  us, 

Naked  we  glide : 
No  hand  has  mapped  the  constellations  o'er  us, 

No  comrade  at  our  side, 

No  chart,  no  guide. 

219 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 

Yet  fearless  toward  that  midnight,  black  and 

hollow, 

Our  footsteps  fare : 

The  beckoning  of  a  Father's  hand  we  follow  — 
His  love  alone  is  there, 
No  curse,  no  care. 

E.  R.  SILL. 


220 


PRESCIENCE. 


(prescience. 

HTHE  new  moon  hung  in  the  sky, 
The  sun  was  low  in  the  west, 
And  my  betrothed  and  I 

In  the  churchyard  paused  to  rest  — 
Happy  maiden  and  lover, 
Dreaming  the  old  dream  over : 
The  light  winds  wandered  by, 
And  robins  chirped  from  the  nest. 


And  lo  !  in  the  meadow-sweet 

Was  the  grave  of  a  little  child, 
With  a  crumbling  stone  at  the  feet, 
And  the  ivy  running  wild  — 
Tangled  ivy  and  clover 
Folding  it  over  and  over : 
Close  to  my  sweetheart's  feet 
Was  the  little  mound  up-piled. 

Stricken  with  nameless  fears, 
She  shrank  and  clung  to  me, 

And  her  eyes  were  filled  with  tears 
For  a  sorrow  I  did  not  see : 

221 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 

Lightly  the  winds  were  blowing, 
Softly  her  tears  were  flowing  — 
Tears  for  the  unknown  years 
And  a  sorrow  that  was  to  be ! 

T.  B.  ALDRICH. 


222 


IN   AUGUST. 


3n  (August 

A  LL  the  long  August  afternoon, 
"^     The  little  drowsy  stream 
Whispers  a  melancholy  tune, 
As  if  it  dreamed  of  June 
And  whispered  in  its  dream. 

The  thistles  show  beyond  the  brook 
Dust  on  their  down  and  bloom, 

And  out  of  many  a  weed-grown  nook 

The  aster-flowers  look 

With  eyes  of  tender  gloom. 

The  silent  orchard  aisles  are  sweet 

With  smell  of  ripening  fruit. 
Through  the  sere  grass,  in  shy  retreat, 
Flutter,  at  coming  feet, 

The  robins  strange  and  mute. 

There  is  no  wind  to  stir  the  leaves, 

The  harsh  leaves  overhead ; 
Only  the  querulous  cricket  grieves, 
And  shrilling  locust  weaves 

A  song  of  Summer  dead. 

W.  D.  HOWELLS. 

223 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


©ag  n^ou  Came* 


0  UCH  special  sweetness  was  about 

That  day  God  sent  you  here, 

1  knew  the  lavender  was  out, 
And  it  was  mid  of  year. 

Their  common  way  the  great  winds  blew, 

The  ships  sailed  out  to  sea  ; 
Yet  ere  that  day  was  spent  I  knew 

Mine  own  had  come  to  me. 


As  after  song  some  snatch  of  tune 

Lurks  still  in  grass  or  bough, 
So,  somewhat  of  the  end  o'  June 

Lurks  in  each  weather  now. 

The  young  year  sets  the  buds  astir, 

The  old  year  strips  the  trees ; 
But  ever  in  my  lavender 

I  hear  the  brawling  bees. 

L.  W.  REESE. 


224 


DE   SHEEPFOL'. 


A  NEGRO  MELODY. 

•pvE  massa  ob  de  sheepfoP, 

Dat  guards  de  sheepfol'  bin, 

Look  out  in  de  gloom  erin'  meadows^ 

Wha'r  de  long  night  rain  begin  — 

So  he  call  to  de  hirelin'  shepa'd, 
"  Is  my  sheep,  is  dey  all  come  in  ?  " 

Oh,  den,  says  de  hirelin'  shepa'd  : 
"  Dey's  some,  dey's  black  and  thin, 

And  some,  dey's  po'  oP  wedda's  ; 

But  de  res',  dey's  all  brung  in. 

But  de  res',  dey's  all  brung  in." 

Den  de  massa  ob  de  sheepfoP, 

Dat  guards  de  sheepfoP  bin, 

Goes  down  in  de  gloomerin'  meadows, 

Wha'r  de  long  night  rain  begin  — 

So  he  le'  down  de  ba's  ob  de  sheepfoP, 

Callin'  sof,  "  Come  in.     Come  in." 

Callin'  sof,  "  Come  in.     Come  in." 

Den  up  t'ro'  de  gloomerin'  meadows, 
T'ro'  de  coP  night  rain  and  win', 

225 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


And  up  t'ro'  de  gloomerin'  rain-paf, 
Wha'r  de  sleet  fa'  pie'cin'  thin, 
De  po'  los'  sheep  ob  de  sheepfoP, 
Dey  all  comes  gadderin'  in. 
De  po'  los'  sheep  ob  de  sheepfoP, 
Dey  all  comes  gadderin'  in. 

S.  P.  McL.  GREENE 


226 


WAITING. 


CERENE,  I  fold  my  hands  and  wait, 
Nor  care  for  wind,  or  tide,  or  sea ; 
I  rave  no  more  'gainst  time  or  fate, 
For  lo !  my  own  shall  come  to  me. 

I  stay  my  haste,  I  make  delays, 
For  what  avails  this  eager  pace  ? 

I  stand  amid  the  eternal  ways, 

And  what  is  mine  shall  know  my  face. 

Asleep,  awake,  by  night  or  day, 
The  friends  I  seek  are  seeking  me ; 

No  wind  can  drive  my  bark  astray, 
Nor  change  the  tide  of  destiny. 

What  matter  if  I  stand  alone? 

I  wait  with  joy  the  coming  years ; 
My  heart  shall  reap  where  it  has  sown, 

And  garner  up  its  fruit  of  tears. 

The  waters  know  their  own  and  draw 
The  brook  that  springs  in  yonder  height ; 

So  flows  the  good  with  equal  law 
Unto  the  soul  of  pure  delight 

227 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 

The  stars  come  nightly  to  the  sky ; 

The  tidal  wave  unto  the  sea ; 
Nor  time,  nor  space,  nor  deep,  nor  high, 

Can  keep  my  own  away  from  me. 

J.  BURROUGHS. 


228 


THE   FLIGHT. 


T  TPON  a  cloud  among  the  stars  we  stood. 

The  angel  raised  his  hand  and  looked  and  said, 

"  Which  world,  of  all  yon  starry  myriad 
Shall  we  make  wing  to  ?  "     The  still  solitude 
Became  a  harp  whereon  his  voice  and  mood 

Made  spheral  music  round  his  haloed  head. 

I  spake  —  for  then  I  had  not  long  been  dead  — 
"  Let  me  look  round  upon  the  vasts,  and  brood 
A  moment  on  these  orbs  ere  I  decide.  .  .  . 

What  is  yon  lower  star  that  beauteous  shines 

And  with  soft  splendor  now  incarnadines 
Our  wings  ?  —  There  would  I  go  and  there  abide." 

He    smiled   as   one   who    some    child's    thought 

divines : 
"  That  is  the  world  where  yesternight  you  died." 

L.  MIFFLIN. 


229 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


'"pHERE  is  something  in  the  autumn  that  is  native 

to  my  blood  — 

Touch  of  manner,  hint  of  mood ; 
And  my  heart  is  like  a  rhyme, 

With  the  yellow  and  the  purple  and  the   crimson 
keeping  time. 

The  scarlet  of  the  maples  can  shake  me  like  a  cry 

Of  bugles  going  by, 

And  my  lonely  spirit  thrills 

To  see  the  frosty  asters  like  a  smoke  upon  the  hills. 

There  is  something  in  October  sets  the  gypsy  blood 

astir ; 

We  must  rise  and  follow  her, 
When  from  every  hill  of  flame 
She  calls  and  calls  each  vagabond  by  name. 

B.  CARMAN. 


230 


LITTLE   BOY   BLUE. 


feifffe 


'IP  HE  little  toy  dog  is  covered  with  dust, 

But  sturdy  and  stanch  he  stands  ; 
And  the  little  toy  soldier  is  red  with  rust, 

And  his  musket  moulds  in  his  hands. 
Time  was  when  the  little  toy  dog  was  new 

And  the  soldier  was  passing  fair, 
And  that  was  the  time  when  our  Little  Boy 

Blue 
Kissed  them  and  put  them  there. 

"  Now,  don't  you  go  till  I  come,"  he  said, 

"  And  don't  you  make  any  noise  !  " 
So  toddling  off  to  his  trundle-bed 

He  dreampt  of  the  pretty  toys. 
And  as  he  was  dreaming,  an  angel  song 

Awakened  our  Little  Boy  Blue,  — 
Oh,  the  years  are  many,  the  years  are  long, 

But  the  little  toy  friends  are  true. 

Ay,  faithful  to  Little  Boy  Blue  they  stand, 
Each  in  the  same  old  place, 

1  From  "  A  Little   Book  of  Western  Verse,"  copyright,  1889,  by 
Eugene  Field,  published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

23I 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 

Awaiting  the  touch  of  a  little  hand, 

The  smile  of  a  little  face. 
And  they  wonder,  as  waiting  these  long  years 

through, 

In  the  dust  of  that  little  chair, 
What  has  become  of  our  Little  Boy  Blue 
Since  he  kissed  them  and  put  them  there. 

E.  FIELD. 


STRONG  AS   DEATH. 


©eerffl.1 


/^V  DEATH,  when  thou  shalt  come  to  me 
From  out  thy  dark,  where  she  is  now, 
Come  not  with  graveyard  smell  on  thee, 
Or  withered  roses  on  thy  brow. 

Come  not,  O  Death,  with  hollow  tone, 
And  soundless  step,  and  clammy  hand  — 

Lo,  I  am  now  no  less  alone 

Than  in  thy  desolate,  doubtful  land  ; 

But  with  that  sweet  and  subtle  scent 

That  ever  clung  about  her  (such 
As  with  all  things  she  brushed  was  blent)  ; 

And  with  her  quick  and  tender  touch. 

With  the  dim  gold  that  lit  her  hair, 

Crown  thyself,  Death  ;  let  fall  thy  tread 

So  light  that  I  may  dream  her  there, 
And  turn  upon  my  dying  bed. 

*  From  "  The  Poems  of  H.  C.  Bunner,"  copyright,  1884,  1892,  1896, 
by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

233 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 

And  through  my  chilling  veins  shall  flame 
My  love,  as  though  beneath  her  breath ; 

And  in  her  voice  but  call  my  name, 
And  I  will  follow  thee,  O  Death. 

H.  C.  BUNNER. 


234 


THE   WHITE   JESSAMINE. 


T  KNEW  she  lay  above  me, 

Where  the  casement  all  the  night 
Shone,  softened  with  a  phosphor  glow 

Of  sympathetic  light, 
And  that  her  fledgling  spirit  pure 

Was  pluming  fast  for  flight. 

Each  tendril  throbbed  and  quickened 

As  I  nightly  climbed  apace, 
And  could  scarce  restrain  the  blossoms 

When,  anear  the  destined  place, 
Her  gentle  whisper  thrilled  me 

Ere  I  gazed  upon  her  face. 

I  waited,  darkling,  till  the  dawn 

Should  touch  me  into  bloom, 
While  all  my  being  panted 

To  outpour  its  first  perfume, 
When,  lo  !  a  paler  flower  than  mine 

Had  blossomed  in  the  gloom  ! 

J.  B.  TABS. 


235 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


JE>ouse  of 


TVT  OT  a  hand  has  lifted  the  latchet 

Since  she  went  out  of  the  door- 
No  footstep  shall  cross  the  threshold, 
Since  she  can  come  in  no  more. 


There  is  rust  upon  locks  and  hinges, 
And  mold  and  blight  on  the  walls, 

And  silence  faints  in  the  chambers, 
And  darkness  waits  in  the  halls  — 

Waits  as  all  things  have  waited 
Since  she  went,  that  day  of  spring, 

Borne  in  her  pallid  splendor 

To  dwell  in  the  Court  of  the  King : 

With  lilies  on  brow  and  bosom, 
With  robes  of  silken  sheen, 

And  her  wonderful,  frozen  beauty, 
The  lilies  and  silk  between. 

Red  roses  she  left  behind  her, 
But  they  died  long,  long  ago  — 

236 


THE    HOUSE   OF   DEATH. 

'Twas  the  odorous  ghost  of  a  blossom 
That  seemed  through  the  dusk  to  glow. 

The  garments  she  left  mock  the  shadows 

With  hints  of  womanly  grace, 
And  her  image  swims  in  the  mirror 

That  was  so  used  to  her  face. 

The  birds  make  insolent  music 
Where  the  sunshine  riots  outside, 

And  the  winds  are  merry  and  wanton 
With  the  summer's  pomp  and  pride. 

But  into  this  desolate  mansion, 
Where  Love  has  closed  the  door, 

Nor  sunshine  nor  summer  shall  enter, 
Since  she  can  come  in  no  more. 

L.  C.  MOULTON. 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND   LYRICS. 


$  $rojricaf  Q&otrning  erf  JJea. 

C  KY  in  its  lucent  splendor  lifted 

Higher  than  cloud  can  be ; 
Air  with  no  breath  of  earth  to  stain  it, 
Pure  on  the  perfect  sea. 

Crests  that  touch  and  tilt  each  other, 

Jostling  as  they  comb ; 
Delicate  crash  of  tinkling  water, 

Broken  in  pearling  foam. 

Flashings  —  or  is  it  the  pinewood's  whispers, 

Babble  of  brooks  unseen, 
Laughter  of  winds  when  they  find  the  blossoms. 

Brushing  aside  the  green  ? 

Waves  that  dip,  and  dash,  and  sparkle ; 

Foam-wreaths  slipping  by, 
Soft  as  a  snow  of  broken  roses 

Afloat  over  mirrored  sky. 

Off  to  the  east  the  steady  sun-track 
Golden  meshes  fill  — 

238 


A   TROPICAL   MORNING   AT   SEA. 


Webs  of  fire,  that  lace  and  tangle, 
Never  a  moment  still. 

Liquid  palms  but  clap  together, 
Fountains,  flower-like,  grow  — 

Limpid  bells  on  stems  of  silver  — 
Out  of  a  slope  of  snow. 

Sea-depths,  blue  as  the  blue  of  violets  —  • 

Blue  as  a  summer  sky, 
When  you  blink  at  its  arch  sprung  over 

Where  in  the  grass  you  lie. 

Dimly  an  orange  bit  of  rainbow 
Burns  where  the  low  west  clears, 

Broken  in  air,  like  a  passionate  promise 
Born  of  a  moment's  tears. 

Thinned  to  amber,  rimmed  with  silver, 
Clouds  in  the  distance  dwell, 

Clouds  that  are  cool,  for  all  their  color, 
Pure  as  a  rose-lipped  shell. 

Fleets  of  wool  in  the  upper  heavens 

Gossamer  wings  unfurl ; 
Sailing  so  high  they  seem  but  sleeping 

Over  yon  bar  of  pearl. 

239 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


What  would  the  great  world  lose,  I  wonder — 

Would  it  be  missed  or  no  — 
If  we  stayed  in  the  opal  morning, 

Floating  forever  so  ? 

Swung  to  sleep  by  the  swaying  water, 

Only  to  dream  all  day  — 
Blow,  salt  wind  from  the  north  upstarting, 

Scatter  such  dreams  away  ! 

E.  R.  SILL. 


240 


MEMORY. 


(JJlemorg. 

TV/T Y  mind  lets  go  a  thousand  things, 

Like  dates  of  wars  and  deaths  of  kings, 
And  yet  recalls  the  very  hour  — 
'Twas  noon  by  yonder  village  tower, 
And  on  the  last  blue  noon  in  May  — 
The  wind  came  briskly  up  this  way, 
Crisping  the  brook  beside  the  road ; 
Then,  pausing  here,  set  down  its  load 
Of  pine-scents,  and  shook  listlessly 
Two  petals  from  that  wild-rose  tree. 

T.  B.  ALDRICH. 


241 


AMERICAN   SONGS  AND   LYRICS. 


$   (gtoob* 

A    BLIGHT,  a  gloom,  I  know  not  what,  has  crept 

upon  my  gladness  — 
Some  vague,  remote  ancestral  touch  of  sorrow,  or  of 

madness ; 

A  fear  that  is  not  fear,  a  pain  that  has  not  pain's  in- 
sistence ; 

A  sense  of  longing,  or  of  loss,  in  some  foregone  ex- 
istence ; 
A  subtle  hurt  that  never  pen  has  writ  nor  tongue  has 

spoken  — 

Such  hurt  perchance  as  Nature  feels  when  a  blos- 
somed bough  is  broken. 

T.  B.  ALDRICH. 


242 


THE    WAY   TO   ARCADY. 


Wag  to 


f~\H,  what's  the  way  to  A  ready, 

To  A  ready,  to  A  ready  ; 
Oh,  whafs  the  way  to  A  ready, 
Where  all  the  leaves  are  merry  ? 

Oh,  what's  the  way  to  Arcady? 
The  spring  is  rustling  in  the  tree  — 
The  tree  the  wind  is  blowing  through  — 

It  sets  the  blossoms  flickering  white. 
I  knew  not  skies  could  burn  so  blue 

Nor  any  breezes  blow  so  light. 
They  blow  an  old-time  way  for  me, 
Across  the  world  to  Arcady. 

Oh,  what's  the  way  to  Arcady? 
Sir  Poet,  with  the  rusty  coat, 
Quit  mocking  of  the  song-bird's  note. 
How  have  you  heart  for  any  tune, 
You  with  the  wayworn  russet  shoon  ? 
Your  scrip,  a-swinging  by  your  side, 
Gapes  with  a  gaunt  mouth  hungry-wide. 
I'll  brim  it  well  with  pieces  red, 
If  you  will  tell  the  way  to  tread. 

1  From  "  The  Poems  of  H.  C.  Bunner,"  copyright,  1884,  1892,  1896^ 
by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

243 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


Oh,  I  am  bound  for  A  ready. 
And  if  you  but  keep  pace  with  me 
You  tread  the  way  to  Arcady. 

And  where  away  lies  Arcady, 

And  how  long  yet  may  the  journey  be  ? 

Ah,  that  (quoth  he)  /  do  not  know  — 
Across  the  clover  and  the  snow  — 
Across  the  frost,  across  the  flowers  — 
Through  summer  seconds  and  winter  hours. 
Pve  trod  the  way  my  whole  life  long, 

And  know  not  now  where  it  may  be; 
My  guide  is  but  the  stir  to  song, 
That  tells  me  I  can  not  go  wrong, 

Or  clear  or  dark  the  pathway  be 

Upon  the  road  to  Arcady. 

But  how  shall  I  do  who  cannot  sing  ? 

I  was  wont  to  sing,  once  on  a  time  — 
There  is  never  an  echo  now  to  ring 

Remembrance  back  to  the  trick  of  rhyme. 

'7»  strange  you  cannot  sing  (quoth  he), 
The  folk  all  sing  in  Arcady. 

But  how  may  he  find  Arcady 
Who  hath  not  youth  nor  melody  ? 

244 


THE   WAY   TO   ARCADY. 

What,  know  you  not,  old  man  (quoth  he)  — 
Your  hair  is  white,  your  face  is  wise  — 
That  Love  must  kiss  that  Mortal \r  eyes 
Who  hopes  to  see  fair  A  ready  f 
No  gold  can  buy  you  entrance  there  ; 
But  beggared  Love  may  go  all  bare  — 
No  wisdom  won  with  weariness  ; 
But  Love  goes  in  with  Foltys  dress  — 
No  fame  that  wit  could  ever  win; 
But  only  Love  may  lead  Love  in 
To  Arcady,  to  A  ready. 


Ah,  woe  is  me,  through  all  my  days 
Wisdom  and  wealth  I  both  have  got, 

And  fame  and  name,  and  great  men's  praise ; 
But  Love,  ah,  Love !  I  have  it  not. 


There  was  a  time,  when  life  was  new  — 

But  far  away,  and  half  forgot  — 
I  only  know  her  eyes  were  blue ; 

But  Love  —  I  fear  I  knew  it  not. 
We  did  not  wed,  for  lack  of  gold, 
And  she  is  dead,  and  I  am  old. 
All  things  have  come  since  then  to  me, 
Save  Love,  ah,  Love !  and  Arcady. 

245 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


Ah,  then  I  fear  we  part  (quoth  he), 
My  way^s  for  Love  and  A  ready. 

But  you,  you  fare  alone,  like  me ; 

The  gray  is  likewise  in  your  hair. 

What  love  have  you  to  lead  you  there, 
To  Arcady,  to  Arcady? 

Ah,  no,  not  lonely  do  I  fare ; 

My  true  companions  Memory. 
With  Love  he  fills  the  Spring-time  air; 

With  Love  he  clothes  the  Winter  tree. 
Oh,  past  this  poor  horizons  bound 

My  song  goes  straight  to  one  who  stands  - 
Her  face  all  gladdening  at  the  sound — 

To  lead  me  to  the  Spring-green  lands, 

To  wander  with  enlacing  hands. 
The  songs  within  my  breast  that  stir 
Are  all  of  her,  are  all  of  her. 
My  maid  is  dead  long  years  (quoth  he), 
She  waits  for  me  in  Arcady. 

Oh, yon* s  the  way  to  Arcady, 

To  Arcady,  to  Arcady  ; 
Oh,  yon's  the  way  to  Arcady, 

Where  all  the  leaves  are  merry. 

H.  C.  BUNKER. 

246 


EVE'S   DAUGHTER. 


T  WAITED  in  the  little  sunny  room : 

The  cool  breeze  waved  the  window-lace,  at  play, 
The  white  rose  on  the  porch  was  all  in  bloom, 

And  out  upon  the  bay 
I  watched  the  wheeling  sea-birds  go  and  come. 

"  Such  an  old  friend,  —  she  would  not  make  me  stay 

While  she  bound  up  her  hair."     I  turned,  and  lo, 
Danae  in  her  shower  !  and  fit  to  slay 

All  a  man's  hoarded  prudence  at  a  blow : 
Gold  hair,  that  streamed  away 

As  round  some  nymph  a  sunlit  fountain's  flow. 

"She  would  not  make  me  wait!"  —  but  well  I 

know 
She  took  a  good  half-hour  to  loose  and  lay 

Those  locks  in  dazzling  disarrangement  so  ! 

E.  R.  SILL. 


247 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


an  3nfagfio  JE>eab  of 


T3ENEATH  the  warrior's  helm,  behold 
The  flowing  tresses  of  the  woman  ! 
Minerva,  Pallas,  what  you  will  — 

A  winsome  creature,  Greek  or  Roman. 

Minerva  ?  No  !  'tis  some  sly  minx 
In  cousin's  helmet  masquerading  ; 

If  not  —  then  Wisdom  was  a  dame 
For  sonnets  and  for  serenading  ! 

I  thought  the  goddess  cold,  austere, 

Not  made  for  love's  despairs  and  blisses  : 

Did  Pallas  wear  her  hair  like  that  ? 

Was  Wisdom's  mouth  so  shaped  for  kisses  ? 

The  Nightingale  should  be  her  bird, 
And  not  the  Owl,  big-eyed  and  solemn  : 

How  very  fresh  she  looks,  and  yet 

She's  older  far  than  Trajan's  Column  ! 

The  magic  hand  that  carved  this  face, 
And  set  this  vine-work  round  it  running, 

Perhaps  ere  mighty  Phidias  wrought 
Had  lost  its  subtle  skill  and  cunning. 

248 


ON  AN  INTAGLIO  HEAD  OF  MINERVA. 

Who  was  he  ?     Was  he  glad  or  sad, 
Who  knew  to  carve  in  such  a  fashion  ? 

Perchance  he  graved  the  dainty  head 

For  some  brown  girl  that  scorned  his  passioa 

Perchance,  in  some  still  garden-place, 
Where  neither  fount  nor  tree  to-day  is, 

He  flung  the  jewel  at  the  feet 
Of  Phryne,  or  perhaps  'twas  Lais. 

But  he  is  dust ;  we  may  not  know 

His  happy  or  unhappy  story : 
Nameless,  and  dead  these  centuries, 

His  work  outlives  him  —  there's  his  glory ! 

Both  man  and  jewel  lay  in  earth 

Beneath  a  lava-buried  city ; 
The  countless  summers  came  and  went 

With  neither  haste,  nor  hate,  nor  pity. 

Years  blotted  out  the  man,  but  left 

The  jewel  fresh  as  any  blossom, 
Till  some  Visconti  dug  it  up  — 

To  rise  and  fall  on  Mabel's  bosom ! 

O  nameless  brother !  see  how  Time 
Your  gracious  handiwork  has  guarded : 

240 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 

See  how  your  loving,  patient  art 
Has  come,  at  last,  to  be  rewarded. 

Who  would  not  suffer  slights  of  men, 
And  pangs  of  hopeless  passion  also, 

To  have  his  carven  agate-stone 
On  such  a  bosom  rise  and  fall  so ! 

T.  B.  ALI>*UCH 


HUNTING-SONG. 


/^VH,  who  would  stay  indoor,  indoor, 

^  When  the  horn  is  on  the  hill  ?     (Bugle :  Tar- 

antara ! ) 
With   the    crisp   air    stinging,    and    the  huntsmen 

singing, 
And  a  ten-tined  buck  to  kill ! 

Before  the  sun  goes  down,  goes  down, 

We  shall  slay  the  buck  of  ten  ;  (Bugle :  Tarantara ! ) 

And  the  priest  shall  say  benison,  and  we  shall  ha'e 

venison, 
When  we  come  home  again. 

Let  him  that  loves  his  ease,  his  ease, 
Keep  close  and  house  him  fair  ;  (Bugle :  Tarantara ! ) 
He'll  still  be  a  stranger  to  the  merry  thrill  of  danger 
And  the  joy  of  the  open  air. 

But  he  that  loves  the  hills,  the  hills, 

Let  him  come  out  to-day  !  (Bugle :  Tarantara  I ) 

For  the  horses  are  neighing,   and  the  hounds  are 

baying, 
And  the  hunt's  up,  and  away ! 

R.  HOVEY. 

251 


AMERICAN   SONGS  AND  LYRICS, 


TV/T Y  life  closed  twice  before  its  close ; 

It  yet  remains  to  see 
If  Immortality  unveil 
A  third  event  to  me, 

So  huge,  so  hopeless  to  conceive, 

As  these  that  twice  befell. 
Parting  is  all  we  know  of  heaven, 

And  all  we  need  of  hell. 

E.  UICKINSON. 


2*2 


WHEN  THE   SULTAN   GOES   TO   ISPAHAN. 


(Bees  fo 


Sultan  Shah-Zaman 
Goes  to  the  city  Ispahan, 
Even  before  he  gets  so  far 
As  the  place  where  the  clustered  palm-trees  are, 
At  the  last  of  the  thirty  palace-gates, 
The  flower  of  the  harem,  Rose-in-Bloom, 
Orders  a  feast  in  his  favorite  room  — 
Glittering  squares  of  colored  ice, 
Sweetened  with  syrop,  tinctured  with  spice, 
Creams,  and  cordials,  and  sugared  dates, 
Syrian  apples,  Othmanee  quinces, 
Limes,  and  citrons,  and  apricots, 
And  wines  that  are  known  to  Eastern  princes; 
And  Nubian  slaves,  with  smoking  pots 
Of  spiced  meats  and  costliest  fish 
And  all  that  the  curious  palate  could  wish, 
Pass  in  and  out  of  the  cedarn  doors  : 
Scattered  over  mosaic  floors 
Are  anemones,  myrtles,  and  violets, 
And  a  musical  fountain  throws  its  jets 
Of  a  hundred  colors  into  the  air. 
The  dusk  Sultana  loosens  her  hair, 


253 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 

And  stains  with  the  henna-plant  the  tips 
Of  her  pointed  nails,  and  bites  her  lips 
Till  they  bloom  again ;  but,  alas,  that  rose 
Not  for  the  Sultan  buds  and  blows ! 
Not  for  the  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 
When  he  goes  to  the  city  Ispahan. 

Then  at  a  wave  of  her  sunny  hand 
The  dancing-girls  of  Samarcand 
Glide  in  like  shapes  from  fairy-land, 
Making  a  sudden  mist  in  air 
Of  fleecy  veils  and  floating  hair 
And  white  arms  lifted.     Orient  blood 
Runs  in  their  veins,  shines  in  their  eyes. 
And  there,  in  this  Eastern  Paradise, 
Filled  with  the  breath  of  sandal-wood^ 
And  Khoten  musk,  and  aloes  and  myrrh, 
Sits  Rose-in-Blqom  on  a  silk  divan, 
Sipping  the  wines  of  Astrakhan ; 
And  her  Arab  lover  sits  with  her. 
That's  when  the  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 
Goes  to  the  city  Ispahan. 

Now,  when  I  see  an  extra  light, 
Flaming,  flickering  on  the  night 
From  my  neighbor's  casement  opposite, 

254 


WHEN   THE   SULTAN   GOES   TO   ISPAHAN. 

I  know  as  well  as  I  know  to  pray, 
I  know  as  well  as  a  tongue  can  say, 
That  the  innocent  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 
Has  gone  to  the  city  Ispahan. 

T.  B.  ALDRICH 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


,  of  old,  was  God's  dominion ; 
'Twas  His  beloved  child,  His  own  first-born; 

And  He  was  aged  ere  the  thought  of  morn 
Shook  the  sheer  steeps  of  black  Oblivion. 
Then  all  the  works  of  darkness  being  done 

Through  countless  aeons  hopelessly  forlorn, 

Out  to  the  very  utmost  verge  and  bourn, 
God  at  the  last,  reluctant,  made  the  sun. 
He  loved  His  darkness  still,  for  it  was  old : 

He  grieved  to  see  His  eldest  child  take  flight ; 

And  when  His  Fiat  lux  the  death-knell  tolled, 
As  the  doomed  Darkness  backward  by  Him  rolled, 

He  snatched  a  remnant  flying  into  light 

And  strewed  it  with  the  stars,  and  called  it  Night, 

L.  MIFFLIN. 


256 


HE  MADE   THE   STARS   ALSO. 


f>e 


"WAST  hollow  voids,  beyond  the  utmost  reach 
Of  suns,  their  legions  withering  at  His  nod, 

Died  into  day  hearing  the  voice  of  God  ; 
And  seas  new  made,  immense  and  furious,  each 
Plunged  and  rolled  forward,  feeling  for  a  beach  ; 

He  walked  the  waters  with  effulgence  shod. 

This  being  made,  He  yearned  for  worlds  to  make 
From  other  chaos  out  beyond  our  night  — 
For  to  create  is  still  God's  prime  delight 

The  large  moon,  all  alone,  sailed  her  dark  lake, 

And  the  first  tides  were  moving  to  her  might; 
Then  Darkness  trembled,  and  began  to  quake 

Big  with  the  birth  of  stars,  and  when  He  spake 

A  million  worlds  leapt  into  radiant  light  ! 

L.  MIFFLIN. 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


VyiNDof  the  North, 

Wind  of  the  Norland  snows, 

Wind  of  the  winnowed  skies  and  sharp,  clear  stars  — 
Blow  cold  and  keen  across  the  naked  hills, 
And  crisp  the  lowland  pools  with  crystal  films, 
And  blur  the  casement-squares  with  glittering  ice, 
But  go  not  near  my  love. 

Wind  of  the  West, 

Wind  of  the  few,  far  clouds, 

Wind  of  the  gold  and  crimson  sunset  lands  — 

Blow  fresh  and  pure  across  the  peaks  and  plains, 

And  broaden  the  blue  spaces  of  the  heavens, 

And  sway  the  grasses  and  the  mountain  pines, 

But  let  my  dear  one  rest. 

Wind  of  the  East, 

Wind  of  the  sunrise  seas, 

Wind  of  the  clinging  mists  and  gray,  harsh  rains  — 

Blow  moist  and  chill  across  the  wastes  of  brine, 

And  shut  the  sun  out,  and  the  moon  and  stars, 

And  lash  the  boughs  against  the  dripping  eaves, 

Yet  keep  thou  from  my  love. 


THE   FOUR   WINDS. 

But  thou,  sweet  wind ! 

Wind  of  the  fragrant  South, 

Wind  from  the  bowers  of  jasmine  and  of  rose  — 

Over  magnolia  glooms  and  lilied  lakes 

And  flowering  forests  come  with  dewy  wings, 

And  stir  the  petals  at  her  feet,  and  kiss 

The  low  mound  where  she  lies. 

C.  H.  LUDERS. 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


"VT  O W  at  last  I  am  at  home  — 

Wind  abeam  and  flooding  tide, 

And  the  offing  white  with  foam, 
And  an  old  friend  by  my  side 
Glad  the  long,  green  waves  to  ride. 

Strange  how  we've  been  wandering 
Through  the  crowded  towns  for  gain. 

You  and  I  who  loved  the  sting 
Of  the  salt  spray  and  the  rain 
And  the  gale  across  the  main ! 

What  world  honors  could  avail 
Loss  of  this  —  the  slanted  mast, 

And  the  roaring  round  the  rail, 
And  the  sheeted  spray  we  cast 
Round  us  as  we  seaward  passed  ? 

As  the  sad  land  sinks  apace, 

With  it  sinks  each  thought  of  care; 

Think  not  now  of  aging  face ; 
Question  not  the  whitening  hair : 
Youth  still  beckons  everywhere. 

260 


THE   RETURN. 

And  the  light  we  thought  had  fled 
From  the  sky-line  glows  there  now ; 

Bends  the  same  blue  overhead ; 
And  the  waves  we  used  to  plow 
Part  in  beryl  at  the  bow. 

Hours  like  this  we  two  have  known 
In  the  old  days,  when  we  sailed 

Seaward  ere  the  night  had  flown, 
Or  the  morning  star  had  paled 
Like  the  shy  eyes  love  has  veiled. 

Round  our  bow  the  ripples  purled, 
As  the  swift  tide  outward  streamed 

Through  a  hushed  and  ghostly  world, 
Where  our  harbor  reaches  seemed 
Like  a  river  that  we  dreamed. 

Then  we  saw  the  black  hills  sway 
In  the  waters'  crinkled  glass, 

And  the  village  wan  and  gray, 
And  the  startled  cattle  pass 
Through  the  tangled  meadow-grass. 

Through  the  glooming  we  have  run 
Straight  into  the  gates  of  day, 

261 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS, 

Seen  the  crimson-edged  sun 

Burn  the  sea's  gray  bound  away  — 
Leap  to  universal  sway. 

Little  cared  we  where  we  drove 
So  the  wind  was  strong  and  keen. 

Oh,  what  sun-crowned  waves  we  clove ! 
What  cool  shadows  lurked  between 
Those  long  combers  pale  and  green ! 

Graybeard  pleasures  are  but  toys ; 

Sorrow  shatters  them  at  last : 
For  this  brief  hour  we  are  boys ; 

Trim  the  sheet  and  face  the  blast ; 

Sail  into  the  happy  past ! 

L.  F.  TOOKER. 


362 


BEREAVED. 


T   ET  me  come  in  where  you  sit  weeping,  —  aye, 
Let  me,  who  have  not  any  child  to  die, 

Weep  with  you  for  the  little  one  whose  love 
I  have  known  nothing  of. 

The  little  arms  that  slowly,  slowly  loosed 
Their  pressure  round  your  neck ;  the  hands  you  used 
To  kiss.  —  Such  arms  —  such  hands  I  never  knew. 
May  I  not  weep  with  you? 

Fain  would  I  be  of  service  —  say  some  thing, 
Between  the  tears,  that  would  be  comforting, — 
But  ah  !  so  sadder  than  yourselves  am  I, 
Who  have  no  child  to  die. 

J.  W.  RILEY. 


163 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


"DECAUSE  I  could  not  stop  for  Death, 

He  kindly  stopped  for  me ; 
The  carriage  held  but  just  ourselves 
And  Immortality. 

We  slowly  drove,  he  knew  no  haste, 

And  I  had  put  away 
My  labor,  and  my  leisure  too, 

For  his  civility. 

We  passed  the  school  where  children  played, 

Their  lessons  scarcely  done ; 
We  passed  the  fields  of  gazing  grain, 

We  passed  the  setting  sun. 

We  paused  before  a  house  that  seemed 

A  swelling  of  the  ground ; 
The  roof  was  scarcely  visible, 

The  cornice  but  a  mound. 

Since  then  'tis  centuries ;  but  each 

Feels  shorter  than  the  day 
I  first  surmised  the  horses'  heads 

Were  toward  eternity. 

E.  DICKINSON. 

264 


INDIAN   SUMMER. 


ummer. 


HTHESE  are  the  days  when  birds  come  back, 

A  very  few,  a  bird  or  two, 
To  take  a  backward  look, 

These  are  the  days  when  skies  put  on 
The  old,  old  sophistries  of  June,  — 
A  blue  and  gold  mistake. 

Oh,  fraud  that  cannot  cheat  the  bee, 
Almost  thy  plausibility 
Induces  my  belief, 

Till  ranks  of  seeds  their  witness  bear, 
And  softly  through  the  altered  air 
Hurries  a  timid  leaf  ! 

Oh,  sacrament  of  summer  days, 
Oh,  last  communion  in  the  haze, 
Permit  a  child  to  join, 

Thy  sacred  emblems  to  partake, 
Thy  consecrated  bread  to  break, 
Taste  thine  immortal  wine  ! 

E.  DICKINSON. 

265 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


Conffteb. 

A  NOTHER  lamb,  O  Lamb  of  God,  behold, 

Within  this  quiet  fold, 
Among  Thy  Father's  sheep 
I  lay  to  sleep  ! 

A  heart  that  never  for  a  night  did  rest 
Beyond  its  mother's  breast. 
Lord,  keep  it  close  to  Thee, 
Lest  waking  it  should  bleat  and  pine  for  me ! 

J.  B.  TABB. 


IN   ABSENCE. 


3n 


A  LL  that  thou  art  not,  makes  not  up  the  sum 

Of  what  thou  art,  beloved,  unto  me  : 
All  other  voices,  wanting  thine,  are  dumb  ; 
All  vision,  in  thine  absence,  vacancy. 

J.  B.  TABBO 


207 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


of 


(~)UT  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Down  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
I  hurry  amain  to  reach  the  plain, 
Run  the  rapids  and  leap  the  fall, 
Split  at  the  rock  and  together  again, 
Accept  my  bed,  or  narrow  or  wide, 
And  flee  from  folly  on  every  side 
With  a  lover's  pain  to  attain  the  plain 

Far  from  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Far  from  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

All  down  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

All  through  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  rushes  cried  Abide,  abide, 
The  wilful  waterweeds  held  me  thrall, 
The  laving  laurel  turned  my  tide, 
The  ferns  and  the  fondling  grass  said  Stay, 
The  dewberry  dipped  for  to  work  delay, 
And  the  little  reeds  sighed  Abide,  abide 

Here  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Here  in  the  valleys  of  H  all. 

1  From  "  Poems  of  Sidney  Lanier,"  copyright,  1884,  1891,  by  Mary 
D.  Lanier,  published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

268 


SONG   OF   THE   CHATTAHOOCHEE. 

High  o'er  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Veiling  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  hickory  told  me  manifold 
Fair  tales  of  shade,  the  poplar  tall 
Wrought  me  her  shadowy  self  to  hold, 
The  chestnut,  the  oak,  the  walnut,  the  pine, 
Overleaning,  with  flickering  meaning  and  sign, 
Said,  Pass  not,  so  cold,  these  -manifold 

Deep  shades  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

These  glades  in  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

And  oft  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

And  oft  in  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  white  quartz  shone,  and  the  smooth  brook- 
stone 

Did  bar  me  of  passage  with  friendly  brawl, 
And  many  a  luminous  jewel  lone 
—  Crystals  clear  or  acloud  with  mist, 
Ruby,  garnet  and  amethyst  — 
Made  lures  with  the  lights  of  streaming  stone 

In  the  clefts  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

In  the  beds  of  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

But  oh,  not  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
And  oh,  not  the  valleys  of  Hall 
Avail :  I  am  fain  for  to  water  the  plain. 

269 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


Downward  the  voices  of  Duty  call  — 
Downward  to  toil  and  be  mixed  with  the  main. 
The  dry  fields  burn,  and  the  mills  are  to  turn, 
And  a  myriad  flowers  mortally  yearn, 
And  the  lordly  main  from  beyond  the  plain 
Calls  o'er  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
Calls  through  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

S.  LANIER. 


270 


SONG. 


IN   LEINSTER. 

T    TRY  to  knead  and  spin,  but  my  life  is  low  the 

while. 

Oh,  I  long  to  be  alone,  and  walk  abroad  a  mile  ; 
Yet  if  I  walk  alone,  and  think  of  naught  at  all, 
Why  from  me  that's  young  should  the  wild  tears  fall  ? 

The  shower-stricken  earth,  the  earth-colored  streams, 
They  breathe  on  me  awake,  and  moan  to   me  in 

dreams  ; 

And  louder  >^y  fondling  the  broke  castle-  wall, 
upon  xny  heart  till  the  wild  tears  fall. 


i  'i&  *~abin  door  looks  down  a  furze-lighted  hill, 

Ai*d  far  PS  Leighlin  Cross  the  fields  are  green  and 

3tiH  5 
/**>t  once  I  hear  the  blackbird  in  Leighlin  hedges 

call, 
r^ie  foolishness  is  on  me,  and  the  wild  tears  fall. 

L.    I.   GUINEY. 


271 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


in 


V\THEN  I  am  standing  on  a  mountain  crest, 

Or  hold  the  tiller  in  the  dashing  spray, 
My  love  of  you  leaps  foaming  in  my  breast, 
Shouts  with  the  winds  and  sweeps  to  their  foray. 
My  heart  bounds  with  the  horses  of  the  sea, 
And  plunges  in  the  wild  ride  of  the  night, 
Flaunts  in  the  teeth  of  tempest  the  large  glee 
That  rides  out  Fate  and  welcomes  gods  to  fight. 
Ho,  love,  I  laugh  aloud  for  love  of  you, 
Glad  that  our  love  is  fellow  to  rough  weather,  — 
No  fretful  orchid  hothoused  from  the  dew, 
But  hale  and  hardy  as  the  highland  heather, 
Rejoicing  in  the  wind  that  stings  and  thrills, 
Comrade  of  ocean,  playmate  of  the  hills. 

R.  HOVEY. 


AT   GIBRALTAR. 


i. 

"C*NGLAND,  I  stand  on  thy  imperial  ground, 
Not  all  a  stranger  ;  as  thy  bugles  blow, 

I  feel  within  my  blood  old  battles  flow,  — 
The  blood  whose  ancient  founts  in  thee  are  found. 
Still  surging  dark  against  the  Christian  bound 

Wide  Islam  presses  ;  well  its  peoples  know 

Thy  heights  that  watch  them  wandering  below  ; 
I  think  how  Lucknow  heard  their  gathering  sound. 
I  turn  and  meet  the  cruel  turbaned  face  ; 

England,  'tis  sweet  to  be  so  much  thy  son  ! 
I  feel  the  conqueror  in  my  blood  and  race  ; 

Last  night  Trafalgar  awed  me,  and  to-day 
Gibraltar  wakened  ;  hark,  thy  evening  gun 

Startles  the  desert  over  Africa  ! 


II. 

Thou  art  the  rock  of  empire,  set  mid-seas 

Between  the  East  and  West,  that  God  has  built ; 
Advance  thy  Roman  borders  where  thou  wilt, 

While  run  thy  armies  true  with  His  decrees. 

273 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 

Law,  justice,  liberty,  —  great  gifts  are  these ; 

Watch  that  they  spread  where  English  blood  is 
spilt, 

Lest,  mixt  and  sullied  with  his  country's  guilt, 
The  soldier's  life-stream  flow  and  Heaven  displease. 
Two  swords  there  are :  one  naked,  apt  to  smite, 

Thy  blade  of  war ;  and,  battled-storied,  one 
Rejoices  in  the  sheath  and  hides  from  light. 

American  I  am ;  would  wars  were  done  ! 
Now  westward  look,  my  country  bids  Good-night,  — 

Peace  to  the  world  from  ports  without  a  gun ! 

G.    E.    WOODBERRY. 


JERRY   AN'   ME. 


"^T  O  matter  how  the  chances  are, 

Nor  when  the  winds  may  blow, 
My  Jerry  there  has  left  the  sea 

With  all  its  luck  an'  woe : 
For  who  would  try  the  sea  at  all, 

Must  try  it  luck  or  no. 

They  told  him  —  Lor',  men  take  no  care 
How  words  they  speak  may  fall  — 

They  told  him  blunt,  he  was  too  old, 
Too  slow  with  oar  an'  trawl, 

An'  this  is  how  he  left  the  sea 
An'  luck  an'  woe  an'  all. 

Take  any  man  on  sea  or  land 

Out  of  his  beaten  way, 
If  he  is  young  'twill  do,  but  then, 

If  he  is  old  an'  gray, 
A  month  will  be  a  year  to  him, 

Be  all  to  him  you  may. 

He  sits  by  me,  but  most  he  walks 
The  door-yard  for  a  deck, 

275 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


An'  scans  the  boat  a-goin'  out 

Till  she  becomes  a  speck, 
Then  turns  away,  his  face  as  wet 

As  if  she  were  a  wreck. 

I  cannot  bring  him  back  again, 

The  days  when  we  were  wed. 
But  he  shall  never  know  —  my  man  — 

The  lack  o'  love  or  bread, 
While  I  can  cast  a  stitch  or  fill 

A  needleful  o'  thread. 

God  pity  me,  I'd  most  forgot 

How  many  yet  there  be, 
Whose  goodmen  full  as  old  as  mine 

Are  somewhere  on  the  sea, 
Who  hear  the  breakin'  bar  an'  think 

O'  Jerry  home  an'  —  me. 

H.  RICH 


276 


FROST. 


frost 

TTOW   small   a   tooth   hath   mined    the    season's 

heart! 

How  cold  a  touch  hath  set  the  wood  on  fire, 
Until  it  blazes  like  a  costly  pyre 
Built  for  some  Ganges  emperor,  old  and  swart, 
Soul-sped  on  clouds  of  incense !     Whose  the  art 
That  webs  the  streams,  each  morn,  with  silver  wire, 
Delicate  as  the  tension  of  a  lyre,  — 
Whose  falchion  pries  the  chestnut-burr  apart  ? 
It  is  the  Frost,  a  rude  and  Gothic  sprite, 
Who  doth  unbuild  the  Summer's  palaced  wealth, 
And  puts  her  dear  loves  all  to  sword  or  flight; 
Yet  in  the  hushed,  unmindful  winter's  night 
The  spoiler  builds  again  with  jealous  stealth, 
And  sets  a  mimic  garden,  cold  and  bright. 

E.  M.  THOMAS 


277 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


Were  6uf  QJtg  JJpirif  feooseb  upon 
tye  @m 

TIT  ERE  but  my  spirit  loosed  upon  the  air,  — 

By  some   High    Power  who   could    Life's 

chains  unbind, 

Set  free  to  seek  what  most  it  longs  to  find,  — 
To  no  proud  Court  of  Kings  would  I  repair : 
I  would  but  climb,  once  more,  a  narrow  stair, 
When  day  was  wearing  late,  and  dusk  was  kind ; 
And  one  should  greet  me  to  my  failings  blind, 
Content  so  I  but  shared  his  twilight  there. 
Nay !  well  I  know  he  waits  not  as  of  old,  — 

I  could  not  find  him  in  the  old-time  place,  — 
I  must  pursue  him,  made  by  sorrow  bold, 

Through  worlds  unknown,  in  strange  Celestial 

race, 

Whose  mystic  round  no  traveller  has  told, 
From  star  to  star,  until  I  see  his  face. 

L.  C.  MOULTON. 


278 


EBB   AND    FLOW. 


€66 


T  WALKED  beside  the  evening  sea, 

And  dreamed  a  dream  that  could  not  be  •, 
The  waves  that  plunged  along  the  shore 
Said  only  :  "  Dreamer,  dream  no  more  !  " 

But  still  the  legions  charged  the  beach  ; 
Loud  rang  their  battle-cry,  like  speech  ; 
But  changed  was  the  imperial  strain  : 
It  murmured  :  "  Dreamer,  dream  again  !  " 

I  homeward  turned  from  out  the  gloom,  — 
That  sound  I  heard  not  in  my  room  ; 
But  suddenly  a  sound,  that  stirred 
Within  my  very  breast,  I  heard. 

It  was  my  heart,  that  like  a  sea 
Within  my  breast  beat  ceaselessly  : 
But  like  the  waves  along  the  shore, 
It  said  :  "  Dream  on  !  "  and  "  Dream  no  more  !  " 

G.  W.  CURTIS, 


279 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


$60ence  of  feiftfe 

HOOSIER   DIALECT. 

C  ENCE  little  Wesley  went,  the  place  seems  all  so 

strange  and  still  — 
W'y,  I  miss  his  yell  o'  "  Gran'pap  !  "  as  I'd  miss  the 

whipperwill  ! 
And  to  think  I  ust  to  scold  him  fer  his  everlastin' 

noise, 

When  I  on'y  rickollect  him  as  the  best  o'  little  boys  ! 
I  wisht  a  hunderd  times  a  day  'at  he'd  come  trompin' 

in, 
And  all  the  noise  he  ever  made  was  twic't  as  loud 

ag'in!  — 
It  'u'd  seem  like  some  soft  music  played  on  some 

fine  insturment, 
'Longside   o'    this   loud   lonesomeness,   sence    little 

Wesley  went  ! 

Of  course  the  clock  don't  tick  no  louder  than  it  ust 

to  do  — 
Yit  now  they's  times  it  'pears  like  it  'u'd  bu'st  itse'f 

in  two  ! 
And  let  a  rooster,  suddent-like,  crow  som'er's  clos't 

around, 
And  seems's  ef,  mighty  nigh  it,  it  'u'd  lift  me  off  the 

ground  ! 

280 


THE   ABSENCE   OF   LITTLE   WESLEY. 

And  same  with  all  the  cattle  when  they  bawl  around 
the  bars, 

In  the  red  o'  airly  mornin',  er  the  dusk  and  dew  and 
stars, 

When  the  neighbers'  boys  'at  passes  never  stop,  but 
jes'  go  on, 

A-whistlin'  kind  o'  to  theirse'v's  —  sence  little  Wes- 
ley's gone ! 

And  then,  o'  nights,  when  Mother's  settin'  up  oncom- 

mon  late, 
A-bilin'  pears  er  somepin',  and  I  set  and  smoke  and 

wait, 
Tel  the  moon  out  through  the  winder  don't  look  big- 

ger'n  a  dime, 
And  things  keeps  gittin'  stiller  —  stiller  —  stiller  all 

the  time,  — 
I've  ketched  myse'f  a-wishin'  like  —  as  I  dumb  on 

the  cheer 
To  wind  the  clock,  as  I  hev   done   fer   mor'n  fifty 

year,  — 

A-wishin'  'at  the  time  hed  come  fer  us  to  go  to  bed, 
With  our  last  prayers,  and  our  last  tears,  sence  little 

Wesley's  dead ! 

J.  W.  RILEY. 


281 


AMERICAN   SONGS    AND   LYRICS. 


feitffe 


'pHROUGH  the  fierce  fever  I  nursed  him,  and 

then  he  said 

I  was  the  woman  —  I !  —  that  he  would  wed ; 
He  sent  a  boat  with  men  for  his  own  white  priest, 
And  he  gave  my  father  horses,  and  made  a  feast. 
I  am  his  wife :  if  he  has  forgotten  me, 
I  will  not  live  for  scorning  eyes  to  see. 
(Little  wild  baby,  that  knowest  not  where  thou  art 

going, 
Lie  still !  lie  still !    Thy  mother  will  do  the  rowing) 

Three  moons  ago  —  it  was  but  three  moons  ago  — 

He  took  his  gun,  and  started  across  the  snow ; 

For  the  river  was  frozen,  the  river  that  still   goes 

down 

Every  day,  as  I  watch  it,  to  find  the  town ; 
The  town  whose  name  I  caught  from  his  sleeping 

lips,. 

A  place  of  many  people  and  many  ships. 
(Little  wild  baby,  that  knowest  not  where  thou  art 

going, 
Lie  still  /  lie  still !    Thy  mother  will  do  the  rowing) 

282 


LITTLE   WILD    BABY. 


I  to  that  town  am  going,  to  search  the  place, 

With  his  little  white  son  in  my  arms,  till  I  see  his 

face. 

Only  once  shall  I  need  to  look  in  his  eyes, 
To  see  if  his  soul,  as  I  knew  it,  lives  or  dies. 
If  it  lives,  we  live,  and  if  it  is  dead,  we  die, 
And  the  soul  of  my  baby  will  never  ask  me  why. 
(Little  wild  baby,  that  knowest  not  where  thou  art 

going, 
Lie  still!  lie  still/    Thy  mother  will  do  the  rowing. 

I  have  asked  about  the  river :  one  answered  me, 

That  after  the  town  it  goes  to  find  the  sea ; 

That  great  waves,  able  to  break  the  stoutest  bark, 

Are  there,  and  the  sea  is  very  deep  and  dark. 

If  he  is  happy  without  me,  so  best,  so  best ; 

I  will  take  his  baby  and  go  away  to  my  rest. 

(Little  wild  baby,  that  knowest  not  where  thou  art 

going, 

Lie  still !  lie  still !    Thy  mother  will  do  the  rowing. 
The  river  flows  swiftly,  the  sea  is  dark  and  deep  : 
Little  wild  baby,  lie  still!  Lie  still  and  sleep.} 

M.  T.  JANVIER. 


283 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


AfyTYNKEN,  Blynken,  and  Nod  one  night 

Sailed  off  in  a  wooden  shoe,  — 
Sailed  on  a  river  of  misty  light 

Into  a  sea  of  dew. 
"  Where  are  you  going,  and  what  do  you  wish  ?  " 

The  old  moon  asked  the  three. 
"  We  have  come  to  fish  for  the  herring-fish 
That  live  in  this  beautiful  sea ; 
Nets  of  silver  and  gold  have  we," 
Said  Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 

The  old  moon  laughed  and  sung  a  song, 
As  they  rocked  in  the  wooden  shoe; 

And  the  wind  that  sped  them  all  night  long 
Ruffled  the  waves  of  dew ; 

The  little  stars  were  the  herring-fish 
That  lived  in  the  beautiful  sea. 

"  Now  cast  your  nets  wherever  you  wish, 

1  From  "  A  Little    Book  of  Western  Verse,"  copyright,  1889,  by 
Eugene  Field,  published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

284 


DUTCH   LULLABY. 


But  never  afeard  are  we  !  " 

So  cried  the  stars  to  the  fishermen  three, 

Wynken, 

Blynken, 

And  Nod. 


All  night  long  their  nets  they  threw 

For  the  fish  in  the  twinkling  foam, 
Then  down  from  the  sky  came  the  wooden  shoe, 

Bringing  the  fishermen  home ; 
'Twc*s  all  so  pretty  a  sail,  it  seemed 

As  if  it  could  not  be ; 

And  some  folk  thought  'twas  a  dream  they'd  dreamed 
Of  sailing  that  beautiful  sea ; 
But  I  shall  name  you  the  fishermen  three  : 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 


Wynken  and  Blynken  are  two  little  eyes, 

And  Nod  is  a  little  head, 
And  the  wooden  shoe  that  sailed  the  skies 

Is  a  wee  one's  trundle-bed ; 
So  shut  your  eyes  while  Mother  sings 

Of  wonderful  sights  that  be, 

285 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 

And  you  shall  see  the  beautiful  things 

As  you  rock  on  the  misty  sea 

Where  the  old  shoe  rocked  the  fishermen  three,- 

Wynken, 

Blynken, 

And  Nod. 

E.  FIELD. 


286 


THE   MARYLAND   YELLOW -THRO AT 


T1THILE  May  bedecks  the  naked  trees 

With  tassels  and  embroideries, 
And  many  blue-eyed  violets  beam 
Along  the  edges  of  the  stream, 
I  hear  a  voice  that  seems  to  say, 
Now  near  at  hand,  now  far  away, 

"  Witchery  —  witchery  —  witchery" 

An  incantation  so  serene, 
So  innocent,  befits  the  scene : 
There's  magic  in  that  small  bird's  note  — 
See,  there  he  flits  —  the  yellow-throat : 
A  living  sunbeam,  tipped  with  wings, 
A  spark  of  light  that  shines  and  sings 
"  Witchery  —  witchery  —  witchery" 

You  prophet  with  a  pleasant  name, 
If  out  of  Mary-land  you  came, 
You  know  the  way  that  thither  goes 
Where  Mary's  lovely  garden  grows : 
Fly  swiftly  back  to  her,  I  pray, 
And  try,  to  call  her  down  this  way, 

"  Witchery  —  witchery  —  witchery  /  " 

1  From  "  The   Builders  and   Other   Poems,"  copyright,    1897,  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 

Tell  her  to  leave  her  cockle-shells, 

And  all  her  little  silver  bells 

That  blossom  into  melody, 

And  all  her  maids  less  fair  than  she. 

She  does  not  need  these  pretty  things, 

For  everywhere  she  comes,  she  brings 

"  Witchery  —  witchery  —  witchery  /  r' 

The  woods  are  greening  overhead, 
And  flowers  adorn  each  mossy  bed ; 
The  waters  babble  as  they  run  — 
One  thing  is  lacking,  only  one : 
If  Mary  were  but  here  to-day, 
I  would  believe  your  charming  lay, 

"  Witchery  —  witchery  —  witchery  I " 

Along  the  shady  road  I  look  — 
Who's  coming  now  across  the  brook  ? 
A  woodland  maid,  all  robed  in  white  — 
The  leaves  dance  round  her  with  delight, 
The  stream  laughs  out  beneath  her  feet  — 
Sing,  merry  bird,  the  charm's  complete, 
"  Witchery  —  witchery  —  witchery  !  " 

H.  VAN  DYKE. 


288 


THE   SILENCE   OF   LOVE. 


JHfence  of 


(^\H,  inexpressible  as  sweet, 

Love  takes  my  voice  away  ; 
I  cannot  tell  thee,  when  we  meet, 
What  most  I  long  to  say. 

But  hadst  thou  hearing  in  thy  heart 

To  know  what  beats  in  mine, 
Then  shouldst  thou  walk,  where'er  thou  art, 

In  melodies  divine. 

So  warbling  birds  lift  higher  notes 

Than  to  our  ears  belong  ; 
The  music  fills  their  throbbing  throats, 

But  silence  steals  the  song. 

G.   E.   WOODBERRY. 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


XTIGHTINGALES  warble  about  it, 

All  night  under  blossom  and  star; 
The  wild  swan  is  dying  without  it, 

And  the  eagle  cryeth  afar; 
The  sun  he  doth  mount  but  to  find  it, 

Searching  the  green  earth  o'er ; 
But  more  doth  a  man's  heart  mind  it, 

Oh,  more,  more,  more ! 

Over  the  gray  leagues  of  ocean 

The  infinite  yearneth  alone ; 
The  forests  with  wandering  emotion 

The  thing  they  know  not  intone ; 
Creation  arose  but  to  see  it, 

A  million  lamps  in  the  blue ; 
But  a  lover  he  shall  be  it 

If  one  sweet  maid  is  true. 

G.    E.    WOODBERRY. 


290 


THE   WHIP-POOR-WILL. 


T~\  O  you  remember,  father,  — 
It  seems  so  long  ago,  — 

The  day  we  fished  together 
Along  the  Pocono  ? 

At  dusk  I  waited  for  you, 
Beside  the  lumber-mill, 

And  there  I  heard  a  hidden  bird 
That  chanted,  "  whip-poor-will," 
' 1 IV h ippoorivill !  whippoorwill  / ' ' 
Sad  and  shrill,  —  "  whippoorivill 7  " 

The  place  was  all  deserted ; 
The  mill-wheel  hung  at  rest; 

The  lonely  star  of  evening 
Was  quivering  in  the  west; 

The  veil  of  night  was  falling ; 
The  winds  were  folded  still ; 

And  everywhere  the  trembling  air 
Re-echoed  "  whip-poor-will !  " 
"  Whippoorwill !  ivhippoorwill !  " 
Sad  and  shrill,  —  "  whippoorwill !  " 

1  From  "  The    Builders,  and  Other  Poems,"  copyright,   1897, 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

291 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


You  seemed  so  long  in  coming, 

I  felt  so  much  alone  ; 
The  wide,  dark  world  was  round  me, 

And  life  was  all  unknown ; 
The  hand  of  sorrow  touched  me, 

And  made  my  senses  thrill 
With  all  the  pain  that  haunts  the  strain 

Of  mournful  whip-poor-will. 

"  Whippoorwill !  whippoorwill 7" 

Sad  and  shrill,  —  "  whippoorwill  /  " 

What  did  I  know  of  trouble  ? 
An  idle  little  lad ; 

I  had  not  learned  the  lessons 
That  make  men  wise  and  sad. 

I  dreamed  of  grief  and  parting, 
And  something  seemed  to  fill 

My  heart  with  tears,  while  in  my  ears 
Resounded  "  whip-poor-will." 
"  Whippoorwill!  whippoorwill!" 
Sad  and  shrill,  —  "  whippoorwill.1" 

'Twas  but  a  shadowy  sadness, 

That  lightly  passed  away ; 
But  I  have  known  the  substance 

Of  sorrow,  since  that  day. 

292 


THE   WHIP-POOR-WILL. 

For  nevermore  at  twilight, 

Beside  the  silent  mill, 
111  wait  for  you,  in  the  falling  dew, 

And  hear  the  whip-poor-will. 

"  Whippoorwill !  vuhippoorwill  /  " 

Sad  and  shrill,  —  "  whippoorwill 7  " 

But  if  you  still  remember, 

In  that  fair  land  of  light, 
The  pains  and  fears  that  touch  us 

Along  this  edge  of  night, 
I  think  all  earthly  grieving, 

And  all  our  mortal  ill, 
To  you  must  seem  like  a  boy's  sad  dream, 

Who  hears  the  whip-poor-will. 

"  Whippoorwill !  ivhippoorwill !  " 

A  passing  thrill  —  "  ivhippoorwill  / 

H.  VAN  DYKE. 


293 


AMERICAN    SONGS    AND    LYRICS. 


C  PIRIT  that  moves  the  sap  in  spring, 

When  lusty  male  birds  fight  and  sing, 
Inform  my  words,  and  make  my  lines 
As  sweet  as  flowers,  as  strong  as  vines. 

Let  mine  be  the  freshening  power 
Of  rain  on  grass,  of  dew  on  flower ; 
The  fertilizing  song  be  mine, 
Nut-flavored,  racy,  keen  as  wine. 

Let  some  procreant  truth  exhale 
From  me,  before  my  forces  fail ; 
Or  ere  the  ecstatic  impulse  go, 
Let  all  my  buds  to  blossoms  blow. 

If  quick,  sound  seed  be  wanting  where 
The  virgin  soil  feels  sun  and  air, 
And  longs  to  fill  a  higher  state, 
There  let  my  meanings  germinate. 

Let  not  my  strength  be  spilled  for  naught, 

But,  in  some  fresher  vessel  caught, 

Be  blended  into  sweeter  forms, 

And  fraught  with  purer  aims  and  charms. 

294 


FERTILITY. 

Let  bloom-dust  of  my  life  be  blown 
To  quicken  hearts  that  flower  alone ; 
Around  my  knees  let  scions  rise 
With  heavenward-pointed  destinies. 

And  when  I  fall,  like  some  old  tree, 
And  subtile  change  makes  mould  of  me, 
There  let  earth  show  a  fertile  line 
Whence  perfect  wild-flowers  leap  and  shine ! 

M.  THOMPSON. 


295 


AMERICAN   SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 


'"PHE  moonbeams  over  Arno's  vale  in  silver  flood 

were  pouring, 
When  first  I  heard  the  nightingale  a  long-lost  love 

deploring. 
So  passionate,  so  full  of  pain,  it  sounded  strange  and 

eerie ; 
I  longed  to  hear  a  simpler  strain,  —  the  wood  notes 

of  the  veery. 

The  laverock  sings  a  bonny  lay  above  the  Scottish 

heather ; 
It  sprinkles  down  from  far  away  like  light  and  love 

together ; 
He   drops   the   golden   notes  to  greet  his  brooding 

mate,  his  dearie ; 
I  only  know  one  song  more  sweet,  —  the  vespers  of 

the  veery. 

In  English  gardens,  green   and   bright  and  full  of 

fruity  treasure, 
I  heard  the  blackbird  with  delight  repeat  his  merry 

measure : 

1  From  "  The  Builders,  and  Other  Poems,"  copyright,  1897,  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

296 


THE   VEERY. 

The  ballad  was  a  pleasant  one,  the  tune  was  loud 

and  cheery, 
And  yet,  with  every  setting  sun,  I  listened  for   the 

veery. 

But  far  away,  and  far  away,  the  tawny  thrush  is  sing- 
ing; 

New  England  woods,  at  close  of  day,  with  that  clear 
chant  are  ringing : 

And  when  my  light  of  life  is  low,  and  heart  and  flesh 
are  weary, 

T  fain  would  hear,  before  I  go,  the  wood  notes  of  the 
veery. 

H.  VAN  DYKE. 


297 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


T  N  a  still  room  at  hush  of  dawn, 

My  Love  and  I  lay  side  by  side 
And  heard  the  roaming  forest  wind 
Stir  in  the  paling  autumn-tide. 

I  watched  her  earth-brown  eyes  grow  glad 
Because  the  round  day  was  so  fair ; 

While  memories  of  reluctant  night 
Lurked  in  the  blue  dusk  of  her  hair. 

Outside,  a  yellow  maple-tree, 
Shifting  upon  the  silvery  blue 

With  small  innumerable  sound, 

Rustled  to  let  the  sunlight  through. 

The  livelong  day  the  elvish  leaves 

Danced  with  their  shadows  on  the  floor; 

And  the  lost  children  of  the  wind 

Went  straying  homeward  by  our  door. 

And  all  the  swarthy  afternoon 

We  watched  the  great  deliberate  sun 

Walk  through  the  crimsoned  hazy  world, 
Counting  his  hilltops  one  by  one. 

2Q8 


THE  EAVESDROPPER. 

Then  as  the  purple  twilight  came 

And  touched  the  vines  along  our  eaves, 

Another  Shadow  stood  without 

And  gloomed  the  dancing  of  the  leaves. 

The  silence  fell  on  my  Love's  lips ; 

Her  great  brown  eyes  were  veiled  and  sad 
With  pondering  some  maze  of  dream, 

Though  all  the  splendid  year  was  glad. 

Restless  and  vague  as  a  gray  wind 

Her  heart  had  grown,  she  knew  not  why. 

But  hurrying  to  the  open  door, 
Against  the  verge  of  western  sky 

I  saw  retreating  on  the  hills, 

Looming  and  sinister  and  black, 

The  stealthy  figure  swift  and  huge 

Of  One  who  strode  and  looked  not  back. 

B.  CARMAN. 


299 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


Q  OLE  Lord  of  Lords  and  very  King  of  Kings, 
He  sits  within  the  desert,  carved  in  stone ; 

Inscrutable,  colossal,  and  alone, 
And  ancienter  than  memory  of  things. 
Graved  on  his  front  the  sacred  beetle  clings ; 

Disdain  sits  on  his  lips ;  and  in  a  frown 

Scorn  lives  upon  his  forehead  for  a  crown. 
The  affrighted  ostrich  dare  not  dust  her  wings 
Anear  this  Presence.     The  long  caravan's 

Dazed  camels  stop,  and  mute  the  Bedouins  stare. 

This  symbol  of  past  power  more  than  man's 
Presages  doom.     Kings  look  —  and  Kings  despair : 
Their  sceptres  tremble  in  their  jewelled  hands 

And  dark  thrones  totter  in  the  baleful  air ! 

L.  MIFFLIN. 


300 


DRIVING   HOME  THE   COWS. 


©rifcing  gome  f0e  £0*00. 

/^~\UT  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed  grass 
^^^     He  turned  them  into  the  river-lane ; 
One  after  another  he  let  them  pass, 
Then  fastened  the  meadow-bars  again. 

Under  the  willows,  and  over  the  hill, 
He  patiently  followed  their  sober  pace ; 

The  merry  whistle  for  once  was  still, 

And  something  shadowed  the  sunny  face. 

Only  a  boy !  and  his  father  had  said 
He  never  could  let  his  youngest  go : 

Two  already  were  lying  dead 

Under  the  feet  of  the  trampling  foe. 

But  after  the  evening  work  was  done, 

And  the  frogs  were  loud  in  the  meadow-swamp. 

Over  his  shoulder  he  slung  his  gun 

And  stealthily  followed  the  foot-path  damp. 

Across  the  clover,  and  through  the  wheat, 
With  resolute  heart  and  purpose  grim, 

Though  cold  was  the  dew  on  his  hurrying  feet 
And  the  blind  bat's  flitting  startled  him. 

301 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


Thrice  since  then  had  the  lanes  been  white, 
And  the  orchards  sweet  with  apple-bloom ; 

And  now,  when  the  cows  came  back  at  night 
The  feeble  father  drove  them  home. 

For  news  had  come  to  the  lonely  farm 

That  three  were  lying  where  two  had  lain  ; 

And  the  old  man's  tremulous,  palsied  arm 
Could  never  lean  on  a  son's  again. 

The  summer  day  grew  cool  and  late. 

He  went  for  the  cows  when  the  work  was  dorie  \ 
But  down  the  lane,  as  he  opened  the  gate, 

He  saw  them  coming  one  by  one : 

Brindle,  Ebony,  Speckle,  and  Bess, 

Shaking  their  horns  in  the  evening  wind ; 

Cropping  the  buttercups  out  of  the  grass  — 
But  who  was  it  following  close  behind  ? 

Loosely  swung  in  the  idle  air 

The  empty  sleeve  of  army  blue ; 
And  worn  and  pale,  from  the  crisping  hair, 

Looked  out  a  face  that  the  father  knew. 

For  Southern  prisons  will  sometimes  yawn, 
And  yield  their  dead  unto  life  again ; 

302 


DRIVING    HOME   THE   COWS. 


And  the  day  that  comes  with  a  cloudy  dawn 
In  golden  glory  at  last  may  wane. 

The  great  tears  sprang  to  their  meeting  eyes ; 

For  the  heart  must  speak  when  the  lips  are  dumb : 
And  under  the  silent  evening  skies 

Together  they  followed  the  cattle  home. 

K.  P.  OSGOOD. 


303 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


A    CLOUD  possessed  the  hollow  field, 

The  gathering  battle's  smoky  shield. 
Athwart  the  gloom  the  lightning  flashed, 
And  through  the  cloud  some  horsemen  dashed, 
And  from  the  heights  the  thunder  pealed. 

Then  at  the  brief  command  of  Lee 
Moved  out  that  matchless  infantry, 
With  Pickett  leading  grandly  down, 
To  rush  against  the  roaring  crown 
Of  those  dread  heights  of  destiny. 

Far  heard  above  the  angry  guns 

A  cry  across  the  tumult  runs,  — 

The  voice  that  rang  through  Shiloh's  woods 

And  Chickamauga's  solitudes, 

The  fierce  South  cheering  on  her  sons ! 

Ah,  how  the  withering  tempest  blew 
Against  the  front  of  Pettigrew ! 
A  Khamsin  wind  that  scorched  and  singed 
Like  that  infernal  flame  that  fringed 
The  British  squares  at  Waterloo  ! 

304 


THE    HIGH   TIDE   AT   GETTYSBURG. 


A  thousand  fell  where  Kemper  led ; 
A  thousand  died  where  Garnett  bled ; 
In  blinding  flame  and  strangling  smoke 
The  remnant  through  the  batteries  broke 
And  crossed  the  works  with  Armistead. 

"  Once  more  in  Glory's  van  with  me ! " 

Virginia  cried  to  Tennessee ; 
"We  two  together,  come  what  may, 

Shall  stand  upon  these  works  to-day !  " 

(The  reddest  day  in  history.) 

Brave  Tennessee  !     In  reckless  way 
Virginia  heard  her  comrade  say : 
"  Close  round  this  rent  and  riddled  rag  1 " 
What  time  she  set  her  battle-flag 
Amid  the  guns  of  Doubleday. 

But  who  shall  break  the  guards  that  wait 
Before  the  awful  face  of  Fate  ? 
The  tattered  standards  of  the  South 
Were  shriveled  at  the  cannon's  mouth, 
And  all  her  hopes  were  desolate. 

In  vain  the  Tennesseean  set 
His  breast  against  the  bayonet ! 

3°5 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND    LYRICS. 


In  vain  Virginia  charged  and  raged, 
A  tigress  in  her  wrath  uncaged, 
Till  all  the  hill  was  red  and  wet ! 

Above  the  bayonets,  mixed  and  crossed, 
Men  saw  a  gray,  gigantic  ghost 
Receding  through  the  battle-cloud, 
And  heard  across  the  tempest  loud, 
The  death-cry  of  a  nation  lost ! 

The  brave  went  down !     Without  disgrace 
They  leaped  to  Ruin's  red  embrace, 
They  only  heard  Fame's  thunders  wake, 
And  saw  the  dazzling  sun-burst  break 
In  smiles  on  Glory's  bloody  face ! 

They  fell  who  lifted  up  a  hand 
And  bade  the  sun  in  heaven  to  stand ! 
They  smote  and  fell,  who  set  the  bars 
Against  the  progress  of  the  stars, 
And  stayed  the  march  of  Motherland ! 

They  stood,  who  saw  the  future  come 
On  through  the  fight's  delirium ! 
They  smote  and  stood,  who  held  the  hope 
Of  nations  on  that  slippery  slope 
Amid  the  cheers  of  Christendom. 

306 


THE   HIGH   TIDE   AT   GETTYSBURG. 


God  lives !     He  forged  the  Iron  will 
That  clutched  and  held  that  trembling  hill. 
God  lives  and  reigns !     He  built  and  lent 
The  heights  for  Freedom's  battlement 
Where  floats  her  flag  in  triumph  still ! 

Fold  up  the  banners  !     Smelt  the  guns ! 
Love  rules.     Her  gentler  purpose  runs. 
A  mighty  mother  turns  in  tears 
The  pages  of  her  battle  years, 
Lamenting  all  her  fallen  sons ! 

W.  H.  THOMPSON. 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


'"PHE  hours  I  spent  with  thee,  dear  heart, 

Are  as  a  string  of  pearls  to  me ; 
I  count  them  over,  every  one  apart, 
My  rosary. 

Each  hour  a  pearl,  each  pearl  a  prayer, 

To  still  a  heart  in  absence  wrung ; 
I  tell  each  bead  unto  the  end  and  there 
A  cross  is  hung. 

Oh,  memories  that  bless  —  and  burn ! 
Oh,  barren  gain  —  and  bitter  loss  ! 
I  kiss  each  bead,  and  strive  at  last  to  learn 
To  kiss  the  cross, 
Sweetheart, 

To  kiss  the  cross. 

R.  C.  ROGERS. 


GRIZZLY. 


/COWARD,  — of  heroic  size, 
In  whose  lazy  muscles  lies 
Strength  we  fear  and  yet  despise ; 
Savage,  —  whose  relentless  tusks 
Are  content  with  acorn  husks ; 
Robber,  —  whose  exploits  ne'er  soared 
O'er  the  bee's  or  squirrel's  hoard ; 
Whiskered  chin,  and  feeble  nose, 
Claws  of  steel  on  baby  toes,  — 
Here  in  solitude  and  shade, 
Shambling,  shuffling  plantigrade, 
Be  thy  courses  undismayed ! 

Here,  where  Nature  makes  thy  bed, 
Let  thy  rude,  half -human  tread 

Point  to  hidden  Indian  springs, 
Lost  in  ferns  and  fragrant  grasses, 

Hovered  o'er  by  timid  wings, 
Where  the  wood-duck  lightly  passes, 
Where  the  wild  bee  holds  her  sweets, 
Epicurean  retreats, 
Fit  for  thee,  and  better  than 
Fearful  spoils  of  dangerous  man. 

305 


AMERICAN    SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 


In  thy  fat-jowled  deviltry 
Friar  Tuck  shall  live  in  thee ; 
Thou  mayest  levy  tithe  and  dole; 

Thou  shalt  spread  the  woodland  cheer, 
From  the  pilgrim  taking  toll ; 

Match  thy  cunning  with  his  fear; 
Eat,  and  drink,  and  have  thy  fill ; 
Yet  remain  an  outlaw  still ! 

F.  B.  HARTE. 


UNMANIFEST  DESTINY. 


(Jlnmamfesf  ©esfmp, 

n^O  what  new  fates,  my  country,  far 
And  unforeseen  of  foe  or  friend, 
Beneath  what  unexpected  star, 
Compelled  to  what  unchosen  end, 

Across  the  sea  that  knows  no  beach 
The  Admiral  of  Nations  guides 

Thy  blind  obedient  keels  to  reach 
The  harbor  where  thy  future  rides ! 

The  guns  that  spoke  at  Lexington 

Knew  not  that  God  was  planning  then 

The  trumpet  word  of  Jefferson 
To  bugle  forth  the  rights  of  men. 

To  them  that  wept  and  cursed  Bull  Run 
What  was  it  but  despair  and  shame  ? 

Who  saw  beneath  the  cloud  the  sun  ? 
Who  knew  that  God  was  in  the  flame  ? 

Had  not  defeat  upon  defeat, 

Disaster  on  disaster  come, 
The  slave's  emancipated  feet 

Had  never  marched  behind  the  drum. 

3" 


AMERICAN  SONGS  AND  LYRICS. 

There  is  a  Hand  that  bends  our  deeds 
To  mightier  issues  than  we  planned, 

Each  son  that  triumphs,  each  that  bleeds, 
My  country,  serves  Its  dark  command. 

I  do  not  know  beneath  what  sky 

Nor  on  what  seas  shall  be  thy  fate ; 
I  only  know  it  shall  be  high, 
I  only  know  it  shall  be  great 

R.  HOVEY. 
July,  i8g8. 


312 


NOTES. 


AMERICAN  poetry  before  Bryant  was  considerable  in 
amount,  but,  with  few  exceptions,  it  must  be  looked  for  by 
the  curious  student  in  the  graveyard  of  old  anthologies. 
Who  now  reads  "The  Simple  Cobbler  of  Agawam  in 
America,"  "  The  Tenth  Muse  Lately  Sprung  up  in  Amer- 
ica," "  The  Day  of  Doom,"  "  M'Fingal,"  or  "  The  Colum- 
biad  ?  "  Skipping  a  generation  from  Barlow's  death,  who 
reads  with  much  seriousness  any  one  of  the  group  of  poets 
of  which  Bryant  in  his  earliest  period  was  the  centre  : 
Halleck,  Pierpont,  Sprague,  Drake,  Dana,  Percival,  All- 
ston,  Brainard,  Mrs.  Osgood,  and  Miss  Brooks  ?  A  few  of 
them,  to  be  sure,  are  remembered  by  an  occasional  lyric, 
—  Halleck  by  "  Marco  Bozzaris,"  a  spirited  ode  in  the 
manner  of  Campbell ;  Pierpont  by  his  ringing  lines,  "War- 
ren's Address  to  the  American  Soldiers ;  "  Drake  by  "  The 
American  Flag,"  conventional  but  not  commonplace,  and 
marked  by  one  very  imaginative  line  ;  and  Allston  by  two 
rather  excellent  lyrics,  "  Rosalie  "  and  "  America  to  Great 
Britain."  The  first  poet  to  accomplish  work  of  high  sus- 
tained excellence  was  Bryant.  His  poetry,  though  never 
impassioned,  is  uniformly  elegant.  It  is  often  as  chaste 
as  Landor  at  his  best.  But  it  never  surprises ;  it  is  not 

3*3 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 

emotional,  personal,  suggestively  imaginative.  In  fact, 
Bryant's  muse  is  not  lyrical.  With  the  exception  of  Pink- 
ney  and  Hoffman,  whose  "  Sparkling  and  Bright,"  if 
technically  defective,  is  a  true  song,  we  must  wait  for  our 
lyric  poet  till  we  reach  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  the  greatest  — 
one  inclines  to  say  the  only  —  master  of  musical  quality  in 
verse  whom  America  has  produced. 

The  Wild  Honeysuckle.  —  Philip  Freneau,  born  in  1752, 
was  a  soldier  in  the  American  Revolution.  Though  never 
rising  quite  into  the  highest  class  of  poets,  he  is  our  first 
genuine  singer.  "  The  Indian  Burying-ground  "  and  "  To 
a  Honey-bee  "  are  only  less  successful  than  the  graceful 
lines  quoted. 

A  Health.  —  Poe  was  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  this 
poem.  He  pronounced  it,  in  his  essay  entitled  "  The 
Poetic  Principle,"  "full  of  brilliancy  and  spirit,"  and 
added :  "  It  was  the  misfortune  of  Mr.  Pinkney  to  have 
been  born  too  far  south.  Had  he  been  a  New  Englander, 
it  is  probable  that  he  would  have  been  ranked  as  the  first 
of  American  lyrists  by  that  magnanimous  cabal  which  has 
so  long  controlled  the  destinies  of  American  Letters,  in 
conducting  the  thing  called  The  North  American  Review" 
This  passage,  very  characteristic  of  Poe's  criticisms,  illus- 
trates both  his  championship  of  favorites,  and  unmerciful 
scourging  of  foes. 

A  Poefs  Hope.  —  The  two  concluding  stanzas  from  a 
poem  of  considerable  length. 

To  Helen.  —  This  brief  lyric,  written  in  the  poet's  youth, 
is  not  only  among  the  most  exquisite  from  his  pen 

3*4 


NOTES. 

but  it  furnishes  one  of  the  most  famous  among  current 
quotations : 

"  The  glory  that  was  Greece, 
And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome." 

On  the  Death  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake.  —  These  manly 
lines  have  yielded  another  phrase  to  the  world's  memory. 
Hardly  any  quotation  is  more  hackneyed  than  the  last 
two  verses  of  the  first  stanza.  Drake  was  a  young  poet, 
the  intimate  friend  and  literary  co-laborer  of  Halleck, 
who  died  September,  1820,  in  his  twenty-fifth  year. 

To  the  Fringed  Gentian.  —  This  lyric  well  illustrates 
what  Mr.  Stedman  has  aptly  termed  Bryant's  "  Doric 
simplicity."  Nothing  of  Wordsworth's  is  freer  from 
ornament  or  from  the  least  trace  of  affectation. 

The  Raven.  —  Though  not  belonging  to  the  highest 
order  of  poetry,  "  The  Raven  "  still  maintains  its  position 
at  the  head  of  its  class.  No  more  astonishing  tour  de 
force  can  be  found  in  English  literature. 

Nature.  —  Generally  regarded,  I  think,  the  finest  of 
Longfellow's,  if  not  of  American,  sonnets. 

Ichabod.  —  Occasioned  by  the  defection  and  fall  of 
Daniel  Webster.  It  is  worthy  a  place  by  the  side  of 
Browning's  "  Lost  Leader."  In  later  years,  Whittier 
wrote  a  poem  on  the  theme,  which,  while  not  a  retraction 
of  his  former  position,  is  penned  in  a  tenderer,  more 
tolerant  mood.  "  The  Lost  Occasion  "  is  its  title,  and  it 
is  only  just  to  the  poet  to  read  this  second  lyric,  hardly 
less  successful,  in  connection  with  the  first. 

315 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 

Old  Ironsides.  — "  Old  Ironsides  "  was  the  popular 
name  for  the  frigate  Constitution.  Doctor  Holmes's  poem 
appeared  in  the  Boston  Advertiser  "  at  the  time  when  it 
was  proposed  to  break  up  the  old  ship  as  unfit  for  service." 

Bedouin  Song.  —  One  of  the  most  spirited,  most  genu- 
inely lyrical  of  American  poems. 

Skipper  Iresorts  Ride.  —  These  lines  have  an  easy, 
swinging  quality  that  is  quite  inimitable.  One  inclines  to 
agree  with  Mr.  Stedman  :  «  Of  all  our  poets  he  (Whittier) 
is  the  most  natural  balladist." 

The  Village  Blacksmith.  —  The  directness  and  homely 
strength  of  "  The  Village  Blacksmith  "  have  made  it  de- 
servedly popular.  The  editor  has  ventured  to  omit  the 
final  stanza  beginning:  "Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my 
worthy  friend,"  which  obviously  adds  neither  to  the  unity 
nor  to  the  force  of  the  poem. 

Inspiration. — The  first  three  stanzas  out  of  the  seven 
which  are  usually  quoted  under  this  title.  In  the  complete 
poem  there  are  nineteen  stanzas  beside  an  introductory 
and  a  concluding  stanza  in  a  different  metre.  See  Tho- 
reau's  "  Poems  of  Nature,"  edited  by  H.  S.  Salt  and  F.  B. 
Sanborn,  Boston  and  London,  1895. 

The  Last  Leaf.  —  This  masterpiece  of  mingled  humoi- 
and  pathos  was  a  favorite  poem  of  Abraham  Lincoln. 

The  Carol  of  Death.  —  Although  few  of  Whitman's 
poems  can  be  strictly  called  lyrics,  no  general  collection  of 
American  verse  should  be  without  representative  extracts 
from  "  Leaves  of  Grass,"  which  at  least  is  informed 
throughout  with  a  very  noble  lyrical  spirit. 

316 


NOTES. 

Carolina.  —  The  concluding  lines  of  this  lyric  have  an 
imaginative  vigor  rare  in  American  poetry.  Four  stanzas 
are  omitted. 

Dirge  for  a  Soldier.  —  Boker's  Dirge  was  written  in 
memory  of  General  Philip  Kearney. 

Battle-hymn  of  the  Republic.  —  Written  in  December, 
1861,  while  Mrs.  Howe  was  on  a  visit  to  Washington. 
Soon  after  the  writer's  return  to  Boston  the  lines  were 
accepted  for  publication  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  by  James 
T.  Fields,  who  suggested  the  title  of  the  poem.  The 
song  did  not  at  first  receive  much  notice,  but  before 
the  Civil  War  was  over  had  become  very  popular. 

My  Maryland.  A  poem  of  great  strength  and  beauty, 
though  of  uneven  merit.  It  is  unfortunately  marred  by 
a  few  rather  intemperate  expressions.  The  sincerity  of 
feeling  is  everywhere  so  evident,  however,  that  these 
must  be  forgiven.  The  lines  were  written  by  a  native  of 
Baltimore,  Prof.  James  Randall,  and  were  first  published 
in  April,  1861.  The  author  of  the  famous  song  was 
teaching  in  a  Louisiana  college  when  he  read  in  a  New 
Orleans  paper  the  news  of  the  attack  on  the  Massachu- 
setts troops  as  they  passed  through  Baltimore.  This 
newspaper  account  inspired  the  verses. 

In  the  Hospital.  —  This  poem,  which  has  enjoyed  at 
best  a  newspaper  immortality,  deserves  to  be  more  widely 
known.  Its  simplicity,  directness,  and  truth  of  feeling 
are  quite  beyond  praise.  According  to  a  story  which 
one  dislikes  to  believe  apocryphal,  these  lines  were  found 
under  the  pillow  of  a  wounded  soldier  near  Port  Royal, 
Sourn  Carolina,  in  1864. 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND    LYRICS. 

Days.  —  Regarded  from  the  point  of  view  of  artistic 
form,  perhaps  nothing  of  Emerson's  is  quite  so  flawless  as 
"  Days,"  a  poem  which  for  conciseness  and  polish  is 
worthy  to  be  called  classic. 

Serenade. —  From  The  Spanish  Student,  1843. 

A  Death-bed.  —  This  is  a  worthy  companion-piece  to 
that  other  miniature  classic,  Thomas  Hood's  song,  begin' 
ning,  "  We  watched  her  breathing  through  the  night." 

Telling  the  Bees.  —  "A  remarkable  custom,  brought 
from  the  Old  Country,  formerly  prevailed  in  the  rural 
districts  of  New  England.  On  the  death  of  a  member  of 
the  family,  the  bees  were  at  once  informed  of  the  event, 
and  their  hives  dressed  in  mourning.  The  ceremonial 
was  supposed  to  be  necessary  to  prevent  the  swarms  from 
leaving  their  hives  and  seeking  a  new  home."  This  poem 
of  Whittier's  is  almost  his  highest  achievement.  Lowell 
said,  in  writing  of  the  Quaker  poet  (Appleton's  Cyclopedia 
of  American  Biography,  VI.) :  "  Many  of  his  poems  (such 
for  example  as  *  Telling  the  Bees '),  in  which  description 
and  sentiment  mutually  inspire  each  other,  are  as  fine 
as  any  in  the  language."  One  often  thinks,  however,  that 
Whittier  will  live  longest  by  his  hymns  and  poems  of 
religious  devotion.  There  is  nothing  similar  in  English 
that  surpasses  "The  Eternal  Goodness,"  and  perhaps 
half  a  dozen  other  poems. 

Katie.  —  About  one-third  of  Timrod's  graceful  poem 
which  bears  this  title.  This  is  one  of  the  few  cases  where 
the  editor  has  ventured  to  make  omissions. 

Thalatta.  —  Regarding  this  poem,  Thomas  Wentwortb 


NOTES. 

Higginson  says,  in  "  The  New  World  and  the  New  Book : " 
"  Who  knows  but  that,  when  all  else  of  American  litera- 
ture has  vanished  in  forgetfulness,  some  single  little 
masterpiece  like  this  may  remain  to  show  the  high-water 
mark,  not  merely  of  a  single  poet,  but  of  a  nation  and  a 
generation  ?  "  The  author  of  "  Thalatta "  was  a  Dart- 
mouth graduate,  a  teacher,  and  a  disciple  of  Emerson. 

The  Rhodora. —  "The  Rhodora"  has  a  conciseness 
and  unity  too  rare  in  Emerson's  poetry,  which,  beau- 
tiful in  details,  is  strangely  uneven.  We  sigh  as  we  think 
what  an  unrivalled  lyric  poet  Emerson  would  have  been 
had  he  been  sustained  at  the  heights  he  was  capable  of 
reaching.  No  one  surpasses  Emerson  at  his  best ;  he  is 
almost  a  great  poet. 

Nature.  —  Thoreau's  prose  is  known  universally;  his 
verse  has  not  won  as  yet  the  recognition  it  deserves.  It 
has  little  lyrical  quality,  but  for  unconventionality,  charm- 
ing turns  of  phrase,  and  the  intimate  knowledge  of  Nature 
it  reveals,  it  is  almost  alone  in  American  poetry. 

The  Chambered  Nautilus.  —  Many  think  this  Holmes's 
finest  poem.  It  is  taken  from  "  The  Autocrat  of  the 
Breakfast  Table,"  1858. 

Thought.  —  Helen  Jackson  is,  perhaps,  the  most  gifted 
of  American  women  poets.  Emily  Dickinson  is  more  im- 
aginative, but  her  utter  indifference  to  form  in  com- 
position makes  her  work,  unique  as  it  is,  less  satisfying. 
Mrs.  Jackson  was  a  favorite  with  Emerson,  and  he  is 
said  to  have  liked  best  among  her  poems  this  sonnet, 
"  Thought." 

319 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND    LYRICS. 

On  a  Bust  of  Dante.  —  Parsons,  one  of  the  noblest  of 
American  poets,  is  one  of  the  most  neglected.  Stedman 
is  inclined  to  think  "On  a  Bust  of  Dante "  the  finest  of 
American  lyrics  (see  "The  Nature  of  Poetry,"  254.) 

The  Port  of  Ships.  —  In  a  recent  review  of  American 
Literature  in  the  London  Athaneum  occurs  this  sentence ; 
"  In  point  of  power,  workmanship,  and  feeling,  among  all 
poems  written  by  Americans,  we  are  inclined  to  give  first 
place  to  the  *  Port  of  Ships,'  of  Joaquin  Miller."  The  con- 
cluding stanza,  which  is  didactic  and  inferior  to  the  others, 
is  omitted.  This  poem  is  generally  known  by  the  title, 
"  Columbus." 

The  White  Jessamine.  —  Always  artistic,  Tabb's  verse 
usually  suggests  workmanship  ;  it  is  more  thoughtful  than 
spontaneous.  His  religious  poetry  presents,  in  the  main, 
a  rather  striking  similarity  to  the  work  of  George  Herbert. 

Parting.  —  Miss  Dickinson  has  much  of  the  witchcraft 
and  subtlety  of  William  Blake.  Many  verses  of  the 
shy  recluse,  whom  Mr.  Higginson  so  happily  has  intro- 
duced to  the  world,  are  not  only  daring  and  uncon- 
ventional, but  recklessly  defiant  of  form.  But,  as  her 
editor  has  well  said,  "  When  a  thought  takes  one's  breath 
away,  a  lesson  on  grammar  seems  an  impertinence." 
Emily  Dickinson  had  more  than  a  message,  more  than 
the  charm  of  unexpectedness,  more  than  the  gift  of 
phrase,  —  she  had  (and  of  how  many  Americans  can  this 
be  said  ? )  an  intense  imagination. 

Fertility.  —  This  selection  appears  in  the  collected 
poems  of  Maurice  Thompson  (Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co., 
1892),  under  the  title,  "A  Prelude." 

320 


NOTES. 

Sesostris.  —  Of  this  poem  Mr.  Stoddard  has  the  high 
praise  that  in  imaginative  quality  it  is  unequalled  in  nine- 
teenth century  literature,  unless  by  Leigh  Hunt's  sonnet 
on  the  Nile. 

The  High  Tide  at  Gettysburg.— -The  author  of  this 
vigorous  ballad  is  a  brother  of  the  late  Maurice  Thompson. 
He  served  in  the  Confederate  army  through  the  war,  and 
subsequently  entered  the  legal  profession.  His  present 
home  is  in  Seattle,  Washington. 


321 


AMERICAN    SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 

PAGB 

Dear  common  flower,  that  grow'st  beside  the  way     .     175 
Dear  yesterday,  glide  not  so  fast       .         .         .  155 

Do  you  remember,  father  ......     291 

England,  I  stand  on  thy  imperial  ground  .         .         .     273 
Fair  flower  that  dost  so  comely  grow  i 

Farragut,  Farragut     .         .         .         .         .         .         .no 

For  a  cap  and  bells  our  lives  we  pay          .         .         .     1 62 
From  the  Desert  I  come  to  thee        ....       85 

"Give  us  a  songl"  the  soldiers  cried         .        .         .119 

Green  be  the  turf  above  thee 36 

Helen,  thy  beauty  is  to  me 31 

Her  hands  are  cold ;  her  face  is  white       .         .         .     1 24 
Here  is  the  place ;  right  over  the  hill         .         .         .     137 
Her  suffering  ended  with  the  day      .         .         .         .136 
How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  child- 
hood         8 

How  small  a  tooth  hath  mined  the  season's  heart  .  277 
I  am  a  woman  —  therefore  I  may  not  .  .  .  227 
I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up  .  .  .  .  .12 
I  have  a  little  kinsman  .  .  .  .  .  -150 
I  knew  she  lay  above  me  .  .  .  .  .  -235 

I  lay  me  down  to  sleep 122 

I  saw  him  once  before 95 

I  saw  the  twinkle  of  white  feet  ....  64 
I  stand  upon  the  summit  of  my  years  .  .  154 

I  try  to  knead  and  spin,  but  my  life  is  low  the  while  271 
I  waited  in  the  little  sunny  room  ....  247 
I  walked  beside  the  evening  sea  ....  279 

If  with  light  head  erect  I  sing 94 

In  a  still  room  at  hush  of  dawn  ....  298 
In  Heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell 21 

322 


INDEX   TO   FIRST    LINES. 

J-AGB 

A  blight,  a  gloom,  I  know  not  what .  .  ,  .  242 
A  cloud  possessed  the  hollow  field  ....  304 
All  that  thou  art  not,  makes  not  up  the  sum  .  .  267 

All  the  long  August  afternoon 233 

A  man  said  unto  his  angel 211 

Another  lamb,  O  Lamb  of  God,  behold    .         .         .     266 
As  a  fond  mother,  when  the  day  is  o'er    .         .  63 

As  a  twig  trembles,  which  a  bird       .         .         .        .145 

At  midnight,  in  the  month  of  June    ...»       57 
At  the  king's  gate  the  subtle  noon    ....     183 

Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down     ....       76 

Because  I  could  not  stop  for  Death  ....     264 

Behind  him  lay  the  gray  Azores        .         .         .         .     199 

Beneath  the  warrior's  helm,  behold  ....     248 

Birds  are  singing  round  my  window  .         .         .         .     193 

Burly,  dozing  humble-bee  .         .         .         .         .         .169 

By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood  ...       74 
Chaos,  of  old,  was  God's  dominion  ....     256 

Close  his  eyes  ;  his  work  is  done       .         .         .         .106 

Come  lovely  and  soothing  death        ....       98 

Coward,  —  of  heroic  size 309 

Dark  as  the  clouds  of  even  .  .  .  .  .100 
Daughters  of  Time,  the  hypocritic  Days  .  .  .126 
De  massa  ob  de  sheepfoF 225 

323 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 

PAGE 

Dear  common  flower,  that  grow'st  beside  the  way    .     175 
Dear  yesterday,  glide  not  so  fast        .         .         .         .     155 

Do  you  remember,  father  .         .         .         .         .        .291 

England,  I  stand  on  thy  imperial  ground  .  .  .  273 
Fair  flower  that  dost  so  comely  grow  i 

Farragut,  Farragut no 

For  a  cap  and  bells  our  lives  we  pay  .  .  .162 
From  the  Desert  I  come  to  thee  .  .  .  -85 
"Give  us  a  song!"  the  soldiers  cried  .  .  .119 
Green  be  the  turf  above  thee  .....  36 

Helen,  thy  beauty  is  to  me1 31 

Her  hands  are  cold  ;  her  face  is  white       .         .         .     1 24 
Here  is  the  place ;  right  over  the  hill        .         .        .     137 
Her  suffering  ended  with  the  day      .         .         .        .136 
How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  child- 
hood         8 

How  small  a  tooth  hath  mined  the  season's  heart  .  277 
I  am  an  acme  of  things  accomplish'd  .  .  173 

I  am  he  that  walks  with  the  tender  and  growing 

night 172 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 12 

I  have  a  little  kinsman       .         .         .         .        .         .     150 

I  knew  she  lay  above  me  ......     235 

I  lay  me  down  to  sleep      .         .         .        .         .         .122 

I  saw  him  once  before       ......       95 

I  saw  the  twinkle  of  white  feet          ....       64 

I  stand  upon  the  summit  of  my  years        .         .        .     154 
I  try  to  knead  and  spin,  but  my  life  is  low  the  while     271 
I  waited  in  the  little  sunny  room       ....     247 

I  walked  beside  the  evening  sea        ....     279 

If  with  light  head  erect  I  sing  .        <       94 

324 


INDEX   TO   FIRST   LINES. 

PAGE 

In  a  still  room  at  hush  of  dawn         ....     298 

In  Heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell 21 

In  May,  when  sea- winds  pierced  our  solitudes  .        .165 

In  the  greenest  of  our  valleys 26 

In  the  summer  even  .......     202 

It  may  be  through  some  foreign  grace       .         .         .140 
It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago     .         .         .         .10 

It  was  nothing  but  a  rose  I  gave  her         .        .         .     196 

It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus 80 

Lear  and  Cordelia  I  'twas  an  ancient  tale  .         .       78 

Let  me  come  in  where  you  sit  weeping,  —  aye  .  .  263 
Let  me  move  slowly  through  the  street  ...  42 
Lo  1  Death  has  reared  himself  a  throne  .  .  -IS 
Look  off,  dear  Love,  across  the  sallow  sands  .  .215 
Look  out  upon  the  stars,  my  love  .  .  .  .14 
Men  say  the  sullen  instrument  .  .  .  .  158 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the 

Lord 108 

My  heart,  I  cannot  still  it 192 

My  life  closed  twice  before  its  close  .  .  .  .252 
My  life  is  like  the  summer  rose  ....  4 
My  love  for  thee  doth  march  like  armed  men  .  .217 
My  mind  lets  go  a  thousand  things  .  .  .  .241 
Nightingales  warble  about  it  .....  290 
No  matter  how  the  chances  are  .  .  .  .  275 
Not  a  hand  has  lifted  the  latchet  ....  236 
Not  a  kiss  in  life  ;  but  one  kiss,  at  life's  end  .  .  209 
Not  as  all  other  women  are  .  .  .  .  .142 
Now  at  last  I  am  at  home  .....  260 
"  Now  tell  me,  my  merry  woodman  "  .  .  .149 
O  Captain !  my  Captain  1  our  fearful  trip  is  done  .  188 

325 


AMERICAN    SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 

PAGB 

O  Death,  when  thou  shalt  come  to  me  .        .     233 

O  fairest  of  the  rural  maids 6 

O  marvel,  fruit  of  fruits,  I  pause  .  .  .  .167 
O  messenger,  art  thou  the  king,  or  I  .  .  .  180 
O  Nature  !  I  do  not  aspire  .....  166 
O  Time !  O  Death  1  I  clasp  you  in  my  arms  .  .  24 
Of  all  the  rides  since  the  birth  of  time  ...  87 

Oh,  inexpressible  as  sweet 289 

Oh,  who  would  stay  indoor,  indoor  .  .  .  .251 
Oh,  whafs  the  way  to  Arcady  .....  243 

Once  it  smiled  a  silent  dell 38 

Once  this  soft  turf,  this  rivulet's  sands  ...  54 
Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered, 

weak  and  weary       ......       45 

Out  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed  grass  .  .  .301 
Out  of  the  hills  of  Habersham  .  .  .  .268 

Prithee  tell  me,  Dimple-Chin 194 

See,  from  this  counterfeit  of  him  .  .  .  .185 
Sence  little  Wesley  went,  the  place  seems  all  so 

strange  and  still 280 

Serene,  I  fold  my  hands  and  wait  ....  227 
Sky  in  its  lucent  splendor  lifted  ....  238 
So  fallen  !  so  lost !  the  light  withdrawn  ...  69 
Sole  Lord  of  Lords  and  very  King  of  Kings  .  .  300 
Southward  with  fleet  of  ice  .  .  .  .  •  71 
Sparkling  and  bright  in  liquid  light  .  .  .  32 

Spirit  that  moves  the  sap  in  spring    ....     294 

Stars  of  the  summer  night 133 

Still  in  thy  love  I  trust       .  ' 218 

Such  special  sweetness  was  about  ....  224 
The  dawn  came  in  through  the  bars  of  the  blind  „  213 

326 


INDEX   TO    FIRST   LINES. 

PAGE 

The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness  ....  66 
The  despot  treads  thy  sacred  sands  ....  104 
The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore  .  .  .  .  113 
The  grass  that  is  under  me  now  .  .  .  .127 
The  handful  here,  that  once  was  Mary's  earth  .  .147 
The  hours  I  spent  with  thee,  dear  heart  .  .  .  308 
The  little  toy  dog  is  covered  with  dust  .  .  .231 
The  moonbeams  over  Arno's  vale  in  silver  flood 

were  pouring  .......     296 

The  new  moon  hung  in  the  sky         .         .         .         .221 

The  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth  hill         .         .         .     130 
The  rising  moon  has  hid  the  stars     .         .         .         .190 

The  royal  feast  was  done ;  the  King  .  .  .  205 
The  sky  is  dark,  and  dark  the  bay  below  .  .  .217 

The  tide  rises,  the  tide  falls 161 

The  wind  from  out  the  west  is  blowing  .  .  .216 
There  are  gains  for  all  our  losses  .  .  .  .129 
There  is  a  city,  builded  by  no  hand  .  .  .  .201 
There  is  something  in  the  autumn  that  is  native  to 

my  blood          .......     230 

These  are  the  days  when  birds  come  back         .         .     265 
This  bronze  doth  keep  the  very  form  and  mold         .     207 
This  is  Palm  Sunday;  mindful  of  the  day         .         .     198 
This  is  the  Burden  of  the  Heart         .         .         .         .197 

This  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which  poets  feign  .  .  178 
Thou  blossom  bright  with  autumn  dew  ...  40 
Thou,  too,  sail  on,  O  Ship  of  State  ....  135 

Thou  unrelenting  Past 18 

Thou  wast  all  that  to  me,  love 34 

Thou  who  hast  slept  all  night  upon  the  storm  .  .  117 
Thought  is  deeper  than  all  speech  .  .  .  .181 

327 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 

PACK 

Through  the  fierce  fever  I  nursed  him,  and  then  he 

said 282 

Three  roses,  wan  as  moonlight,  and  weighed  down  .  210 

To  what  new  fates,  my  country,  far  .         .        .        .  311 

Under  a  spreading  chestnut-tree        ....  92 

Upon  a  cloud  among  the  stars  we  stood  .         .        .  229 

Vast  hollow  voids,  beyond  the  utmost  reach     .         .  257 

We  break  the  glass,  whose  sacred  wine     .         .  25 

Were  but  my  spirit  loosed  upon  the  air     .         .         .  278 

What,  cringe  to  Europe  1     Band  it  all  in  one    .         .  75 

What  may  we  take  into  the  vast  Forever?        .        .  219 

When  first  the  bride  and  bridegroom  wed         .         .  153 

When  I  am  standing  on  a  mountain  crest         .         .  272 
When  I  was  a  beggarly  boy      .         .         .         .         .128 

When  the  Sultan  Shah-Zaman  .....  253 

While  May  bedecks  the  naked  trees ....  287 

Whither,  midst  falling  dew 29 

Who  has  robbed  the  ocean  cave        ....  3 

Wind  of  the  North 258 

Wynken,  Blynken,  and  Nod,  one  night     .         .         .  284 

Years  have  flown  since  I  knew  thee  first  .        .        .  208 


3*8 


INDEX   TO   AUTHORS. 

PAGB 

James  Aldrich,  1810—1856 136 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich,  1836 —        .... 

210,  221,  241,  242,  248,  253 

George  Henry  Boker,  1823  —  1890  .  75,  78,  100,  106 
Joseph  Brownlee  Brown,  1824 — 1888  .  .  .154 
William  Cullen  By  rant,  1794  —  1878  6,  18,  29,  40,  42,  54 
Henry  Cuyler  Bunner,  1855—  1896  209,  213,  233,  243 
John  Burroughs,  1837  — 227 

Bliss  Carman,  1861  — 230,  298 

William  Ellery  Channing,  1818 —  ....  24 
Christopher  Pearse  C ranch,  1813—  1892  .  .181 

George  William  Curtis,  1824 — 1892          .         .         .     279 

Emily  Dickinson,  1830 — 1886  .         .      252,264,265 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  1803  —  1882         74,  126,  165,  169 

Eugene  Field,  1850 — 1895        ....     231,284 

Annie  Adams  Fields,  1834 — 218 

Philip  Freneau,  1752 — 1832 I 

329 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND   LYRICS. 

PAGE 

Richard  Watson  Gilder,  1844 —  207,  208,  216,  217 

Sarah  Pratt  (McLean)  Greene,  1858 —  .  .  .225 
Louise  Imogen  Guiney,  1861  —  .  .  .211,  271 

Fitz-Greene  Halleck,  1790 — 1867  ....  36 
Francis  Bret  Harte,  1839 — 1902  ....  309 
Charles  Fenno  Hoffman,  1806 — 1884  ...  32 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  1809  —  1894  76,  95,  124,  178 
Richard  Hovey,  1864 — 1900  .  .  251,  272,  311 

Julia  Ward  Howe,  1819 — 108 

William  Dean  Howells,  1837  —  ....  223 
Mary  Woolsey  Howland,  1832  — 1864  .  .  .  122 

Helen  Hunt  Jackson,  1831  —  1885  .  155,  167,  180,  183 
Margaret  Thomson  Janvier  ("  Margaret  Vande- 

grift"),  1845— 282 

Sidney  Lanier,  1842  —  1881  ....  215,268 
Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow,  1807  —  1882 

63,  66,  71,  80,  92,  133,  135,  161,  190 
James  Russell  Lowell,  1819 — '891 

64,  128,  142,  145,  158,  162,  175,  192 
Charles  Henry  Lu'ders,  1858 — 1891          .         .         .     258 

William  Tuckey  Meredith,  1839 —  ....  no 
Lloyd  Mifflin,  1846 —  .  .  .  229,  256,  257,  300 
Cincinnatus  Hiner  (Joaquin)  Miller,  1841 —  .  .  199 
Louise  Chandler  Moulton,  1835 —  .  .  .  236,278 

Kate  Putnam  Osgood,  1841  —  ....     301 

330 


INDEX  TO   AUTHORS. 

PAGE 

Thomas  William  Parsons,  1819 — 1892 

147,  185,  198,  201 

Edward  Coate  Pinkney,  1802  —  1828         .  12,  14,  25 

Edgar  Allan  Poe,  1809  —  1849  .... 

10,  15,  21,  26,  31,  34,  38,  45,  57 

James  Ryder  Randall,  1839 —  •         •  •     IJ3 

Lizette  Woodworth  Reese,  1860 —  .         .         .     224 

Hiram  Rich,  1832 — 275 

James  Whitcomb  Riley,  1853 —        .         .         .      263,280 

John  Shaw,  1778  — 1809 3 

Edward  Rowland  Sill,  1841  — 1887 

205,  219,  238,  247,  283 

Harriet  Prescott  Spofford,  1835 —  •  •  •  J9^  202 
Edmund  Clarence  Stedman,  1833 —  •  •  I5°>  J94 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard,  1825  — 1903    127,  129,  153,  193 

John  Banister  Tabb,  1845 —  •  •  •  235>  2^6,  267 
Bayard  Taylor,  1825 — 1878  .  .  .  .85,  119 
Edith  Matilda  Thomas,  1854 —  .  .  .  .277 
Maurice  Thompson,  1844  —  1901  ....  294 
Will  Henry  Thompson,  1848 —  ....  304 
Henry  David  Thoreau,  1817 —  1862  .  .  94,  166 
Henry  Timrod,  1829 — 1867  ....  104,140 
L.  Frank  Tooker,  1855 — 260 

Henry  Van  Dyke,  1852 —          .         .         .      287,291,296 

Walt  Whitman,  1819 — 1892  .  98,  117,  172,  173,  188 
John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  1807  —  1892  69,  87,  130.  137 
Richard  Henry  Wilde,  1789  —  1847  ...  4 

33. 


AMERICAN   SONGS   AND  LYRICS. 

PAGE 

Byron  Forceythe  Willson,  1837  — 1867  •  •  J49>  *97 
George  Edward  Woodberry,  1855 —  .  273,  289,  290 
Samuel  Woodworth,  1785 — 1842  ....  8 


332 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


*&:  :-r:'l!^ 

FEB    y 

r.  CD  LD 

If,   1937 

r              •         ,         - 

MAR  16  1937 

Wftn  1      1983 

M*  7  mm 

11  n   1  fi  2.005 

•'  v  *>     IQ/LC; 

pot  i  *  w 

I    "          ly'-rJ 

16 

ft*   h" 

fii.  •  ,  /f~ 

/ 

d  FT  f^  1  1*^  Ss,  ^  w^*^ 

KcG'D  'E.D 

OCT  18  19Q6 

YA  01598 


305528 


«t 


V. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


